


Darling, You're My Golden Medal

by hinatella



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1900s, Alternate Universe - Moulin Rouge! Fusion, Angst with a Happy Ending, Burlesque, Everyone lives, Implied Sexual Content, Love at First Sight, M/M, Near Assault Experience, Nobody Dies, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, bigbangonice2018, yes even vicchan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-24 00:18:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13799376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hinatella/pseuds/hinatella
Summary: Viktor Nikiforov first arrives in Paris, France the winter of 1899. The winter of love. At least, that’s how he’d described it when he told his father figure, Yakov, why he absolutelyhadto go to France,right this instant.He speaks of love constantly,obsessesover it for an individual who’s never experienced it first hand. But then, in the little Bohemian corner of Paris, in the boisterous district of Montmartre, he meets the Golden Medal of the Moulin Rouge. And Viktor suddenly understands what loving someone so much it hurts truly means.





	1. Act I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vanillamuon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillamuon/gifts).



> I'm alive! And I finished my Big Bang!!! on Ice fic! I decided to gift this to haley ([@viictuuris](https://twitter.com/viictuuris) because they showed me Moulin Rouge for the first time back in May 2017, and ever since then I haven't known peace. This idea was in my head for _10 months_ , and I'm so happy it's finally complete! Thank you so much for helping me through this and giving me ideas and yelling about Satine and Christian with me 100 times. I love you. ♥
> 
> If you've never seen Moulin Rouge, you wouldn't have to have seen the movie to understand this fic! I ask that you please pay close attention to tags. Any upsetting content in this fic is short lived and minor, but it's still there. If you have seen Moulin Rouge, well. Good luck.
> 
> The art that appears in the fic is drawn by [Gena](http://katsudild-does.tumblr.com/) and [Hekla-chan](http://hekla-chan.tumblr.com/) respectively!!
> 
> P.S. There's translations included.

✦

_“Everywhere and always ugliness has its beautiful aspects; it is thrilling to discover them where nobody else has noticed them.” —Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec._

✦

_Montmartre, France, 1899_

Viktor Nikiforov first arrives in Paris the winter of 1899. The winter of love. At least, that’s how he’d described it when he told his father figure, Yakov, why he absolutely _had_ to go to France, _right this instant._

“I want to get a fresh start in a new place, Yakov!” Victor told him. “What better place than near the city of love!”

“That is preposterous, Vitya. Stop fooling around! You’ll get swept up in Montmartre and it’s unmitigated _sin!_ ”

And Viktor, with a wide smile, one hand clutching a suitcase, another waving his hand in the air, completely ignored Yakov’s words as he made his way to France via train.

Paris is good and well, with its epicenter of culture and its newly built 300 meter tower of wandrous puddling iron and its plethora of lights that sear the eyes and its buildings so ancient they seem to moan secrets of the past. But Victor isn’t here to experience Paris in its entirety.

No, he’s here to get sucked into the rich bohemian culture that surrounds the village of Montmartre nearby. He craves the experience he’ll gain by being here. He wants to know beauty, freedom, truth, and, more than anything, he wants to experience love to its fullest, then write about it.

It’s wildly different here from the city of St. Petersburg. Crowded beyond belief, like stretching your arms out will cause you to accidentally bump into your neighbors. But it appears as though there’s never a dull moment, which is exactly the change of pace Viktor needed.

Inspiration flows here, in his stabby little apartment in the southern side of Montmartre, but it feels as though it isn’t _enough_. Viktor needs something more to help his creative process. As he stands up from his chair and saunters to the balcony, looks out onto the cityscape, he realizes that the motivation he’s missing…is love.

And suddenly.

 _Something_ drops from the ceiling, and directly into his study.

(He thanks the stars that he’d had the foresight to move earlier.)

That something isn’t the love he’s looking for, but rather a man lying unconscious at the center of his floor.

Viktor is frozen in place—he has no idea what to say.

“Sorry!” calls a voice from the gaping, yawning hole in his ceiling. “Terribly sorry, _monsieur_!”

Viktor looks up into the face of a man with a tuft of blond hair and green eyes framed by lashes the size of the eiffel tower itself. The man smiles wide as he continues. “Georgi there has narcolepsy, quite tragic, really, since we were in the middle of rehearsing a play.”

“A play?” he asks curiously.

“Yes!” the blond gentlemen responds. “A play! _Shall We Dance—_ it’s set in Switzerland!”

Absently, Viktor thinks that perhaps this strange man speaking to him through his ceiling hails from Switzerland.

In the middle of his musings, another face appears next to the allegedly Swiss man. “Christophe! Who are you talking to?!” says a young boy with neck length blond hair. His eyes are also green, but appear the kind that could cut a man in half with one sweep. “We have to get Georgi and get back to the… oh, uh.”

“Hi,” Viktor answers sheepishly. It feels odd, standing here and being gazed upon by strangers through his own broken ceiling.

“How is he?” the boy asks.

“Oh, I’m quite alright, thanks for asking.”

“Not _you_ ,” he snorts. “I meant Georgi,” he tips his head in the direction in which this narcoleptic Georgi had fallen prior.

Quite rude of him, Viktor thinks with a frown, considering the fall could have caused his _death_.

“He’s fine,” the Swiss man—Christophe—says dismissively, waving his hand languidly in the air.

“He’s _unconscious_ ,” Viktor gawks incredulously. He leans down just to be sure that Georgi still has a pulse. Thankfully, he does.

“Well isn’t this just _grand_. Now the play won’t be ready for the investor tomorrow. We’re, je ne sais quois, fuckin’ screwed,” huffs the boy.

“I still have to finish the music!” says a woman with striking red hair who peeks over the hole besides Boy-With-The-Knife-Eyes.

“And I need to wrap up the rest of the script!” calls some faraway voice within the room outsides.

“Well, aren’t we in a predicament,” Christophe taps a finger against his bearded chin, humming all the while. “Where are we going to find a replacement on such short notice to play the young, handsome poet in _Shall We Dance_?”

Four pairs of eyes peer down at Viktor. He looks around the room to be certain they’re not looking at someone else. Georgi is still unconscious. His writing desk is _ruined_.

"Are you... do you want me to help?" Viktor asks carefully, looking up at the expectant eyes that are boring holes at him, as though _he_ were the one who personally stomped into their space and interrupted the whole thing.

"I'm so glad you offered!" says a smiling Christophe. "Yuri, be a doll and go down to get him."

"But I—" Viktor starts, then is promptly interrupted.

The tiny blond with green eyes, who Viktor can now refer to as Yuri, grumbles. "He can use a ladder."

"But my—"

"Don't be rude, Yuri, go and get him!" the redhead sharply pats his back.

"What about my ceiling?!" Viktor shouts.

"Oh," she says. "You'll live."

✂

And so, Viktor visits his rowdy bunch of upstairs neighbors. The interior is decorated in an interesting fashion. There's clothes and strings and rope strung up haphazardly all over the place. It's the the scene of a fabric-based murder.

Viktor stands by, waiting or his cue to do... _whatever_ , while Yuri stands at the center of the room and drones in ear-splitting, angry monotone that Viktor thinks is meant to be singing. It's quite grating on the ears.

Mila, the redhead woman that Viktor was hastily introduced to, immediately stops playing the musical score on the piano in the corner, drumming her fingers against the keys in dissonance before turning around to Yuri. "No, no, _no_ , it's no good. Your noises are ruining the music."

"Your music is drowning out my words, you _hag!"_ he stomps petulantly on the floor. (Viktor swears that the already distressed surface creaks under the pressure.)

"Just tone it down some, baby Yuri," Christophe says. “Your voice is much too overpowering. Do you plan to render everyone's ears useless by the end of the play?"

"It's these dumb _lyrics! '_ The hills animate with the euphonious symphonies of descent?' Who the hell are you trying to impress, JJ?" Yuri grumbles, which must be a permanent manner of speaking for him.

JJ, the writer, scoffs. "I'm trying to impress the investor, of course. It's all about beautifully woven words that," he clutches his chest dramatically, lays a hand over his head, " _drives_ straight through your heart!"

"It's dumb," Yuri says.

"Excusez- _moi—_ "[1]

"No, he's right," Mila hums. "The words could be a lot more... how you say... better?"

"Then how about this? _The hills are aroused with the the intoning descant!_ " Christophe sings.

"The hills rock and roll with the sonancy of rhythm," Mila suggests.

"The hills _scream_ in _despair_ ," Yuri chimes.

"The hills! The hills! The—"

They're arguing incessantly; it's enough to make Victor's ear bleed. He has to put a stop to this.

So he does.

Everyone in the room is suddenly halted, frozen, wide-eyed and memorized as Viktor sings the words like his life and well-being and the continued existence of his hearing is at sake.

_"THE HIIIIIIIILLS ARE ALIIIIIIIIVE WITH THE SOUND OF MUUUUUUSIC......"_

Mila blinks repeatedly. Christophe visibly _swoons._ "Wow."

"The hills are alive with the sound of music is _far_ better," Yuri nods slowly. Viktor feels like getting that little gremlin’s approval means something important. He preens a little at it.

"JJ!" Christophe claps his hands together. "You should absolutely write the play together with Viktor!"

"Excusez- _moi?!"_ JJ all but yells, hand against his chest in offense. "I think the hell not!"

And he leaves, stepping around the gaping hole in the floor and sauntering out of the front door with his chin kissing the ceiling.

"Good riddance," Yuri mumbles.

"Good news!" Christophe says, placing an arm around Viktor's shoulder. The man's gripe is iron tight and soul crushing. It makes Viktor wheeze for his efforts as Christophe sinks his weight down on him. "You'll be our sole writer for the play!"

"But I've never written a play," Viktor says, furrowing his eyebrows at the insane suggestion.

"You've got talent, though! You'll be well!" Mila encourages him. She stands, places her arm right over Christophe's, making herself at home on Viktor's other shoulder, and Viktor has to bend down a little to accommodate her height. "This will be perfect!" she says. "We can finally write the Bohemian revolutionary show we've always dreamed of!"

"I guess he can't be much worse than _JJ_ ," Yuri says with a meek shrug.

A play? A play?! _A play!_

Viktor's very first writing job, which literally fell from the sky, handed to him a silver platter, and no more than a month since coming to France! This a miracle. This just might be the inspiration he was looking for. And yet...

He thinks around his shortcomings, his inexperience, the fact that Yakov _swears_ that Viktor will waste his time here. What will doing some small play tucked away in this little city do for him? Viktor can hear it now, the way Yakov's voice will sound as it cuts iron daggers straight through his soul.

_"You'll just waste your time with a job as a penniless, impoverished artists!"_

"I'm not so sure this is a good idea. I'm terribly sorry, but I can't be the Bohemian revolutionary you're looking for," Viktor politely declines.

"Viktor, riddle me this," Christophe starts.

"Yes?"

"Do you believe in beauty?"

"Of course," says Viktor.

"Freedom?" chimes Mila.

"Yes."

"Truth?" adds Yuri.

" _Yes_."

"And..." Christophe wraps an arm around Viktor's waist and pretends to sway to unheard music in his head. " _Loooove?"_

"Yes," Viktor says with conviction. "Yes, _yes_. More than anything in the _world_ , I believe in love! It's oxygen, it's muse, it's inspiration, it's everything you'd ever need in life!"

( _"Bleh,"_ says baby Yuri in the corner of the room.)

"It's settled then!" Christophe says. "You will be the sole writer of Shall We Dance! We just have to convince Celestino of your worth and talent."

"Ohh, he will absolutely _adore_ you!" Mila claps him harshly on the back.

Viktor tumbles down, through the hole in the floor, where Georgi the narcoleptic Russian breaks his fall.

✂

The plan is simple, flawless, and spectacularly formulated. Viktor thinks there's no way it can fail. It will transpire like this: Viktor will enter the Moulin Rouge disguised as a wealthy Englishman in a well tailored suit; he'll meet with Yuuri with two _u's_ , and when he reads a bit of his poetry to him, Yuuri will fall helplessly in love with his words and convince Celestino, owner of the Moulin Rouge that Viktor should absolutely be the writer for Shall We Dance. Nothing could possibly go wrong. Nothing, except, possibly, the absinthe that Christophe and Mila insist Viktor take a drink of. To "loosen him up" because he seems awfully tense. But Viktor can't help it. Never before has he stepped foot inside a cabaret as extravagant as this.

The room, as massive and sparkling and crowded as it is, is spinning. Viktor lost his bearings about four drinks ago, and he's having the time of his _life_.

He wants to laugh in Yakov's face, tell him, _and you said I wouldn't have fun here, that I'd suffer as a starving writer. Ha!_

Viktor is holding the hand of a courtesan, her other hand is being held by Mila, and her olive face gleams as she laughs and shimmies her jewel covered shoulders to the sizzling beat of the music. She leads them around the room, quick and light-footed.

“The Golden Heauxs” is what the men and women here are called, Viktor learns. They’re absolutely full of life, bursting with it, as they dance and move and flow around the wealthy people who indulge them.

He and Christophe and Mila dance around the outskirts of the crowd until they’ve found an empty table, where they pretend to be deep in conversation. The booth is concealed and beautifully decorated with rich, earthy colored tapestry. Viktor admires the handiwork of the woodcut table. From here, the view of the inebriated patrons down below fills Viktor with bubbly excitement. He can hardly sit still.

“We’ll be safe here,” Mila says. “Don’t bring too much attention to yourselves.”

“You say that,” Christophe says, “But you were making quite the scene dancing with Sara some time ago.”

Mila makes a mocking face at him as she downs a miscellaneous drink.

Viktor isn't here to be indulged by the Golden Heauxs. He's here for one person...

The lights suddenly dim to something seductive and alluring, the perfect atmosphere for the gorgeous young creatures of the night.

The music shifts, and an angel incarnate draped in liquid gold suspends from the ceiling, seated high above the dark crowd in like a miracle on invisible wings.

"There he is," Christophe leans over Viktor's shoulder to whisper into his ears. "The Golden Medal of the Moulin Rouge."

The Golden Medal of the Moulin Rouge...what a fitting name for the most beautiful person in the world, Viktor thinks.

Absolutely gorgeous.

Viktor cannot hope to look away as his eyes remain glued to the floating figure of Yuuri with two _u's_. He's graceful as he runs his black gloved hands over the length his arm, his neck, over and around his, _oh,_ adorable face. His eyes remain closed as he hums to the slow melody that the musicians on stage begins to play. His long, long lashes flutter against the pink apples of his cheeks.

Then...he opens his mouth.

Starts to sing.

And Viktor just about dies right there.

If this is the person he's been told to woo with words, Viktor isn't so sure that he'll survive being in a room alone with him without dropping dead from Yuuri's mere eyes gazing straight at him.

"Christophe," Viktor finally whispers back. His lips have gotten incredibly dry. "Are you certain this is a good idea?"

"One hundred percent positive!" he says with certainty, patting Viktor strongly on his back. "Woo the _pants_ off him!"

Viktor doesn't get the chance to ask whether Christophe meant that figuratively or literally.

 

✂

Yuuri dances on stage as he always does, with all the grace and expertise he’s learned through the years of training. He sits pretty on a decorated chair at center stage, swings his smooth legs in the air, bats his eyes, and watches with glazed pleasure as the crowd _swoons_ with the sway of his hips. His hands are running languidly down his sides, but his mind is elsewhere, because tonight is especially important.

Tonight, he is to meet with The Duke.

Tonight, he must impress. There is no room for mistakes.

Yuuri shimmies his shoulders as he glides down the stairs on light feet like a kitten. He raises the length of one arm to the side, cocks his hips, and the crowd to his left _swoons_ and parts like the red sea. He does the same with his right, to the same effect. Yuuri _adores_ this, how he can bend hundreds of people to his will, with the simple sweep of his hand. And usually, he’d revel in it. But his eyes are searching for _him._

As he continues to sing to the upbeat melody playing in the background, Yuuri makes his way to the platform at the center of the room, surrounded by other dancers and courtesans of the cabaret. There, he joins Celestino, who’s been making pleasantries with The Duke up until now.

While the music dips into an intermission, Yuuri and Celestino are shrouded in giant feathers, hidden from the crowd, while Yuuri changes from his golden dress to a shorter, lighter, white one, made to dance and spin in.

“Is he here, Ciao Ciao?” Yuuri asks Celestino.

“ _Tesoro_ ,[2] I wouldn’t lie to you!” he responds with a grandiose gesture, or he attempts to, arms spreading and immediately smacking against the bodies surrounding them.

Yuuri wants to squeal a little in nervous excitement, but he collects himself. He has to show the utmost professionalism if this is to go well. “Where is he? By the booth towards the back, yes?”

“Yes, yes,” Celestino confirms. “He’s the one seated near Chistrophe. Quick a striking fellow. You can’t miss him.”

Hastily, he pulls one arm through the straps of the white dress. “Do you think he’ll fancy blushing bride?” Yuuri dips his chin into one shoulder, wary look in his eyes as he slowly bats his eyelashes. “or perhaps smothering Eros?” he smiles then, looking at Celestino down the length of his nose, smug and devious as can be.

“Smothering Eros for sure,” Celestino nods.

Yuuri nearly shoves his arm into the wrong place in the dress he’s putting on. He’s beginning to tremble, and it’s hard to distinguish the earthquake in his heart between his elation or his tendency to expect the absolute worst. “And you’re certain he’s going to invest in the show?”

“ _Dolcezza!_ [3] After spending the night with you, there’s absolutely no way he can refuse!” Celestino grabs Yuuri’s shaking shoulders to calm him down, because Yuuri is doing an awful job of that himself. “Remember, we’ll all counting on you. A real show in a real theater means....”

“I’ll be a real _danseur_ ,” Yuuri can’t help the smile that takes hold of his lips. He’s giddy with it. The trembling is undoubtedly _excitement_ overflowing his basin heart. There’s stars in his eyes. He feels on top of the world, for the first time in a long time.

“Go get ‘em, _Tesoro!_ ” Celestino shouts, just as the large feathers and dancers part. Yuuri steps out into the energized atmosphere of cheers and reverence with newfound enthusiasm. He’s electrified as he sings and dances now, swishing his hips this way and that to the beat of the swing music, all while he has his sights set on…. _him_.

And Celestino was right. Striking as all hell as he stares directly at Yuuri while Yuuri makes his way over to their table, an impish, coquettish little thing on a night prowl.

When Yuuri is close enough, enough to see the the blinding blue of the Duke’s eyes, enough to smell the distinct floral perfume wafting like sinful snakes from his person, he puts on a smile as bright as his sparkling brown eyes.

“I believe you were expecting me?”

The Duke is a stuttering mess as he stammers out a quiet _yes_ in the wake of Yuuri’s dangerous smirk.

Yuuri turns to the crowd then, raises his arms high to address the vast room. “It’s Medal’s choice tonight!”

The crowd showers Yuuri in golden cheers, and Yuuri _swims_ in it.

He turns back to the Duke, holds out one elbow-length gloved hand, and tells him, “shall we dance?”

It’s like a spell, the way the Duke rises on inebriated feet and gravitates towards Yuuri’s outstretched hand. Yuuri almost expects to have to carry the man with the way he stumbles like he’s unsure. For a moment, Yuuri thinks, _is this truly The Duke?_

But then a long, solid arm is around Yuuri’s waist, and they easily and swiftly fall into a waltz to the beat of the music. And what man better to sweep Yuuri off his feet than the Duke himself.

The Duke looks a bit starstruck as he watches Yuuri with the sun’s intensity in his sparkling blue eyes. Yuuri smiles small and shy as he starts up friendly conversation.

He tips his head so his lips sweep against the man’s ear to ensure he’s heard over the roaring music. “Very kind of you to take up an interest in our little show,” Yuuri whispers lowly.

“Ah,” the Duke clears his throat, and nods his head. “Y-yes. Of course. Of course! It sounds very interesting indeed. I’m very excited to get involved,” he says.

“Oh I’m sure you will be after tonight,” Yuuri smiles in practiced promise.

“Tonight?” he blinks in confusion, eyebrows furrowed. Then his lips fall open in recognition. “Ah, yes! Tonight—Christophe mentioned being able to show off my skills in private?”

Yuuri’s mouth twitches upward in fascination. The complete 180 this man has spun just now—if Yuuri wasn’t already a seasoned courtesan, he would’ve gotten dizzy from it. It’s good, though, to see that the Duke is eager to spend the night with him. That means less work on Yuuri’s part to convince him that he is worth investing in.

Yuuri tilts his head up again, deliberately brushes his lips against the Duke’s knife-sharp jawline—slow and careful, as though he risks his mouth getting cut in half if he so much as moves too fast. Then he whispers, directly into his ear, “ _Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, monsieur?”_ [4]

The Duke looks taken aback by this somehow, and Yuuri gets a little worried. Is he being too forward? Did he completely misread the situation? Has he ruined their chances of having the show funded before the Duke has even considered it? What has he _done_? And while Yuuri obsesses over the sudden thoughts flying circles around his mind, the Duke blows his platinum hair away from his confused eyes, and regards Yuuri carefully.

“Pardon…?”

“Um,” Yuuri squeaks. His dancing feels robotic now, his limbs not his own, but his heart beats twice as fast as with the work he’s putting in. But not from dancing, no—

“Just. Nevermind,” he mutters, eyes closed, head shaking dismissively. “It’s just.” It’s almost time to end the dance, which is just as well, because Yuuri suddenly feels like the wide, wide space is closing in on him fast. But this is unacceptable. He needs to pull himself together. He _has_ to, for the good of the Moulin Rouge and his family and its future that rests heavy on his tired shoulders.

When Yuuri opens his eyes again, it’s to an inexplicable look of absolute curiosity bordering around crystal clear mirror blue eyes—-Yuuri shivers from the cold of them, feels like he’s being read like a list. He doesn’t know what to say, and he doesn’t have to. The moment he opened his mouth to say some rehearsed line he’s uttered a thousand times, someone taps him on the back.

It’s Otabek, dressed in the same styled golden costume Yuuri had worn moments ago. It’s time to return on the trapeze for one final song before his date with the Duke tonight. Yuuri cannot leave this conversation here, however. He won’t stop thinking himself into anxiety-ridden holes otherwise.

He turns back to the Duke, squeezes his hands. “I’ll see you tonight in the Poodle Room?” Yuuri doesn’t mean to sound so unsure of himself. His demeanor is cracking under this sudden pressure without his permission.

“Yes,” he answers, nodding his head with almost innocence enthusiasm. “Yes, of course. The Poodle Room. I look forward to showing you my poetry.”

“Your…” Yuuri tilts his head to one side, but he brushes the odd statement away with the curve of the coy smile he places methodically on his lips. “Alright. See you then, _monsieur._ ”

✂

“You never told me you were such a good dancer, Viktor!” Christophe says to him in greeting, clapping him heartily on the back.

“You guys were so lovely on the dance floor! It was mesmerizing, watching the both of you,” Mila grins cheekily. “So? What did the Golden Medal say?”

“He… he said to meet him in the Poodle Room,” Viktor answers, slightly dazed. It must be the alcohol getting to his head, messing with his vision. He feels like he dreamt that whole thing.

“ _Ohoho_ , the Poodle Room!” Mila elbows Christophe’s side. “Our little Viktor boy is already growing up!”

“What in God’s name is the Poodle Room?” he asks in confusion. “Is it filled with poodles? Are we petting dogs?”

“ _Haa—!_ ” Mila is clutching Christophe’s side as she snorts uncontrollably. Beside her, Christophe places his chin in his palm, unfazed, sends sparkling eyes and a wolfish smile at Viktor. “You’ll see. You’ll absolutely _woo_ him, dear.”

Viktor is about to say something more, ask what Mila is laughing at, why Christophe looks like he wants to laugh behind the glass of alcohol he picks up, but a gasp suddenly sweeps across the room. The rushing waves of the sound hits Viktor’s back like a whip.

They all turn to see—

The Golden Medal, clad in purple and gold and clear crystals, falling from the ceiling with not so much as a harness to help break his fall. An angel without wings, plummeting lifelessly to the earth.

“Oh, mon _dieu—!”_ [5]

From this vantage point, Viktor can see the moment Yuuri falls into the waiting arms of the man who’d called for him early during their dance. He has a shell-shocked expression on his face, and Yuuri lays limp in his arms as he carries the other away from the guests’ perusing eyes.

The Moulin Rouge is silent enough to hear a pin drop; it’s as if the room itself is holding its breath in anticipation for the next minute.

From atop a balcony, where members of the in-house band sit, Celestino Cialdini slices through that silence with the sound of his booming voice reaching every corner of the room.

“You’ve scared the poor bird away!”

Simultaneously, the crowd moans, “ _Awww._ ”

“But worry not!” he continues, raising the cane in his hand up into the air. “There are some lonely Moulin Rouge dancers here tonight looking for a partner or two!” With quick fingers, he unties a banner draped over the railing of the balcony. It drops, and reveals words Viktor has trouble trying to read. “So if you can hunk hunk….you can _Hunkadola_ with them!”

The crowd of bourgeoises grow wild with cheers.

“Welp,” Mila says, downing a bottle of whatever that amber liquid sitting in her cup is, “That’s my cue to go find Sara.”

✂

_“...way!”_

Everything is hazy. A nebula of colors behind Yuuri’s eyes.

“Back out front, all of you! You shouldn’t be back here when you’ve got a job to do!”

Yuuri vaguely recognizes the sound of Celestino’s voice. He thinks that’s the name he meekly speaks as the smell of ammonia hits his nose. With a hand reached out, he touches someone’s— _Celestino’s?_ —face.

“Oh, deary, I’m not Celestino. But I’m so glad you’re awake. You _scared_ me.”

Yuuri slowly opens his eyes, and he’s met with wide, twinkling brown eyes staring slowly down at him. He smiles sheepishly.

“Oh. Yuuko.”

“Yuuri!” Celestino’s voice calls again, and a moment later he appears by Yuuri’s bedside. “Are you alright?”

Quick footsteps approach—Yuuri thinks he’s still hallucinating—-until his friend’s face pops up behind Celestino. “Yuuri, oh, god! What happened?!”

“It’s...fine,” Yuuri says feebly. With Yuuko’s help, he sits up and tests the feeling in his limbs. He’s still here. He giggles a little, more as reassurance for Celestino and Phichit and Yuuko than himself. “It must be those silly costumes. The corsets restrict my breathing quite a bit.”

Phichit places a hand on his bare chest and breathes a sigh of relief. “Oh, _oh,_ Yuuri, don’t scare us like that. I thought you were going to break your neck the way you fell.”

“It’s a good thing Otabek was there to catch you,” Yuuko says.

“Ah, did he? I have to go thank him…” Yuuri makes to stand from the cot, but Celestino is having none of that. He rests a hand on Yuuri’s shoulder to keep him from moving.

“ _Dolcezza_ , you _must_ rest. Build up some strength before you see the Duke later tonight,” he insists.

Yuuri pouts, but concedes without protest. With puffs up cheeks, his head hits the thin pillow below, and the air in his mouth comes rushing out. “I’ll try.”

“Good,” Celestino nods, satisfied. He stands and turns then, spots Phichit in his half-dressed state, pasties over his nipples and shorts clinging to his hips, and he raises an eyebrow. “Get dressed and get out there, Phichit. We have people to entertain!”

“Right!” Phichit dutifully salutes. He blows Yuuri a kiss and saunters off.

 

Later, when Yuuri feels a little better, Yuuko helps him into the outfit he plans to wear for the Duke that night: a form fitted black corset over his midriff and a lace robe that drapes over his long limbs like water. Yuuri swishes the robe around his person experimentally, peeks at himself in the mirror, and asks, “Will he like this?”

“ _Absolutely_ ,” Yuuko reassures him. “You look _lovely_.” She dips her hand in a tub of pomade and works to slick his hair back again, redoing the tips that came undone while he was out dancing in the hall. “That Duke fell hard for you on the dance floor, Yuuri. You should’ve seen the look in his eyes.”

Yuuri watches Yuuko’s ministrations, and he bites his bottom lip to contain his smile. “Of course I did. I was right there. He’s quite handsome, too,” Yuuri timidly admits, blush on his cheeks.

“And so are you!” Yuuko turns him around so she can inspect her handiwork, hands pressed together and fingertips touching her smiling lips. “Not to mention, he bleeds affluences. You’re sure to be the next Lilia Baranovskaya once he agrees to sponsor you.”

“Really?” Yuuri perks up like he alway does at the mention of the _Great Lilia Baranovskaya_. A prima ballerina who exudes grace. She walks on her toes and dances like she means to sever onlookers with the tip of her pointe shoe. She’s amazing. She’s everything Yuuri wishes to be.

“You’re more than talented. You can surpass Lilia, even!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Yuuri snorts in disbelief.

“I’m deathly serious! You’ll be a great _danseur_ , and you’ll fly away from this place and chase after your dream until it’s clutched!” Yuuko mimics this, grabbing at nothing in the air and bringing her enclosed fist to her chest, “blossoming right in your very hands.”

They’re such pretty words. Yuuri hopes he’ll allow himself to finally believe them after tonight.

As Yuuri steps into a coat, ready to make his way to the Poodle Room, he hears Celestino’s enthusiastic voice speak in the other room.

“Everything is going so well tonight! Nothing can go wrong!”

✂

Viktor has never been more nervous in his entire twenty-plus years of life.

He clutches the top hat in his hand in a death grip like it’s the only object keeping him sane, tethered to this current reality. Because while Yuuri with two _u’s_ prepares himself, he stands with his back towards him, eyes out towards the city of Paris, and he watches the way the brilliant lights shine off the nervous sweat forming on his skin.

It’s fine. This is fine. He can do this. Christophe and his troupe of bohemian revolutaries _swears_ by the fact that he’s a genius. Viktor just has to convince Yuuri of that, too.

“This is a lovely place for a poetry reading, wouldn’t you agree?” comes the soft voice floating on clouds. It weaves through the air, curlings around Viktor’s form, wills him to slowly turn his gaze to drink in the sight of—

 _Oh_.

Oh, he’s—is that black lace? A _garter_ belt?

Viktor doesn’t know what to say. He’s lost all ability to form coherent words.

Yuuri saunters over to a small table draped in white cloth. Upon it sits a tray of fruits and cubes of cheese and bottles of champagne. He picks up a flute from a shelf hidden below the tablecloth, uncorks the bottle, and hums while he pours the golden liquid into the glass.

“Would you like a drink? Perhaps something to eat?” he asks politely.

Viktor weighs the option in his head, wonders of having another drink or two in his system will help the nerves dissipate a little, but he decides against it. “No thank you. I’ve already had quite a bit to drink. I was… hoping we could just get started?”

The sudden sharp sound of metal being rattled makes Viktor jump and fumble with his top hat. Yuuri is still where he stands, having placed the champagne bottle down harshly on the table. With a flourish of fabric, Yuuri turns to him again. “If that’s what you’d like.” He sits demurely on the edge of the bed at the center of the room, and pats the fluffy space next to him. “Why don’t you join me here?”

“Ah,” Viktor shakes his head. “That’s quite alright. I’d prefer to do this standing.”

Yuuri raises an eyebrow in question, makes to stand himself.

“No, no!” Viktor says, waving his hand dismissively. “You don’t have to stand, too! It’s a little long, I’d like you to be comfortable.”

“ _Oh_. If… that’s what you want,” Yuuri says slowly, carefully, pushing himself back against the pillows and reclining against the sheets.

Viktor takes the lull in the conversation as a signal to begin. He clears his throat once, mumbles old vocal exercises under his breath while he stares at his shoes, looks up to meet Yuuri’s waiting, _sultry_ eyes…

Looks back down again, sweating a little harder.

“Is everything alright?” comes Yuuri’s concerned voice.

“Yes, fine. I just,” Viktor’s voice cracks, a marvel, a rare gem that hasn’t been heard for _years_ , “it’s easy to forget sometimes when it’s been awhile, you know? Inspiration takes a little longer to come.”

Yuuri nods his head, and sighs a soft, _“ahhh_ ,” as if understanding has hit him. Which is good. Good. Perhaps he’ll give Viktor a little more time to collect himself. He’s never been filled with so much nerves in his life. It feels uncharacteristic.

Slowly, Yuuri stands from the bed and makes his way over to Viktor. “I understand,” he confirms, and when he’s close enough, he wraps his arms languidly around Viktor’s shoulders. “I can help with that, hmm?”

“Help? Viktor asks, curiously. “How so?”

Yuuri presses a finger to Viktor’s lips to keep him from asking any further questions. Then he’s sinking to his knees, low, low, _lower_ , till he’s facefirst with Viktor’s—

“Wh— _AH!”_

“Does _this_ inspire you?” Yuuri says with feeling, a fistful of Viktor’s crotch in his curled fingers.

Viktor is absolutely, completely shell shocked. “What?” he manages to wheeze through his surprise.

“This helps, yeah?” Yuuri asks. And he just—he starts _rubbing_ and Viktor doesn’t know what to do. Christophe and his troupe didn’t mention _this_ being apart of the plan.

While Viktor stands there, mind in complete turmoil, Yuuri is pulling apart the buttons of his trousers one at a time. It finally occurs to Viktor that this is happening, and that this isn’t what he’s here for, and he should perhaps attempt to stop this before it goes too far.

“Wait…” he says, just as Yuuri roughly pulls his pants down.

Viktor tumbles from the shock of it, falls hard on his rear, but that doesn’t seem to deter Yuuri at all, who uses Viktor’s moment of imbalance to straddle Viktor’s lap.

“Wait, _waitwaitwaitwait—_ ”

“Shh, it’s alright. You can let your body do the poetry,” Yuuri tells him.

He shoves his hand down Viktor’s undergarment and _gasps._

“Big boy!”

Viktor howls.

(From shock? Sudden arousal? He still isn’t sure.)

“That’s it!” Yuuri encourages him, eyes sparkling as he looks down pointedly at Viktor’s crotch. “Give me your poetry! Let me hear you _sing_.”

“Ha—”

Viktor rolls himself over, Yuuri goes tumbling to the rug below, and with his pants caught below his knees and nothing else to do, he takes Yuuri’s advice and begins to use his voice.

He begins to sing.

_“My gift is my song...and this one’s for you…”_

The atmosphere in the room suddenly shifts from the hectic chaos it was moments before to _this_ : innocent curiosity as Yuuri stares up at Viktor with beautiful blinking eyes and lips slightly agape. Yuuri begins to stand—Viktor waddles over to him, pulls his pants back up, walks the rest of the short distance—and helps the other up with an offered hand.

_“I hope you don’t mind, that I put into words, how wonderful live is now you’re in the world.”_

A soft smile curls on Yuuri’s lips as Viktor sings his quiet love song with shaky breath. He wonders if this is out of line, if this is what he’s meant to be doing, or if this entire plan has been sent up in flames, but as he stands there in the middle of the Poodle Room, Yuuri’s hands curling around his waist as if he means to lead him in a slow tango, Viktor can’t bring himself to care.

“That was… _wow_ ,” Yuuri says, speechless, _breathless_ , eyes glittering with the whole of Paris reflected in them.

“Wow?” Viktor questions, amused smile on his own lips. Standing chest to cheat against this beautiful, ethereal person in his arms, Viktor hopes, _prays_ , and the other can’t feel the rapid heartbeats pressing against his ribcage.

“Wow,” Yuuri says again, like that explains everything. It doesn’t. But the look in his eyes as he stares at Viktor like he’s a painting from the _Louvre_ does. “I can’t believe The Duke has such an amazing _voice_ …”

Viktor laughs a little. “Duke?”

“Yes, but, titles don’t matter to me. Not when you’re so incredibly talented. I could fall in love with a voice like that alone,” Yuuri muses dreamily.

Again, Viktor laughs. “But I’m no duke.”

The world stops.

They’re pulled off their rose-colored pedestal.

Viktor sees the exact moment the life drains from Yuuri’s eyes like spilt wine from a glass. The hold Viktor has on Yuuri shatters as Yuuri pulls away from him.

_“What?”_

“I...I’m not a duke,” Viktor repeats. He’s reeling, nauseated by the sudden whiplash turn of events.

“Not the…” Yuuri takes a step back, has to brace himself against his bed as he takes in this information, as if Viktor marched in here and told him his husband died in the war. Viktor doesn’t think the news he’s actually giving is groundbreaking, much less cause to sit down so Yuuri doesn’t get shaken off his feet.

“What do you _mean_ you’re not The Duke?”

“I’m sorry? Were you expecting a duke?” Viktor asks, beyond confused. He stares behind him, out of the open window and onto the streets of Paris like he’ll find his answer hidden in the city lights. (He swears he catches a glimpse of blond hair and devilish green eyes. Speaking of—) “Christophe said you’d be willing to meet me tonight to discuss my involvement in the—”

 _“Christophe?”_ Yuuri squeaks. His cheeks have gone a little red. “You don’t mean the tall man with the two-toned hair and devilish green eyes, do you?”

“Yes!” Viktor says, “Yes that’s exactly who I mean!”

He places his head in his hands in mourning, _groans_ , and not, unfortunately, in the good way. “Please, _please_ tell me you aren’t one of Christophe's talented yet penniless bohemian writers.”

“Would you like me to lie?” Viktor says, unsure.

“Oh, _mon dieu_ , how did this happen?” Yuuri gets up again, only to start pacing in all his lace clad glory. Viktor pointedly tries not to stare at his ass whenever Yuuri turns to face away from him.

“How did what happen?” Viktor asks airly. He’s distracted.

His attention is snapped back into place with the flick of a finger the moment Yuuri turns to him again and—and—

He looks on the verge of tears.

A shiver licks down the line of Viktor’s spine.

He’s not very good at dealing with people on a good day. He doesn’t know how to handle _this._

“I’m supposed to meet with The Duke tonight so he can invest! Not one of Christophe’s writers! This was too good to be true, I _knew_ it—”

“Hold on, wait, wait _waitwaitwait_ —-” Viktor holds his hands out in a placating gesture. He isn’t sure if he should comfort Yuuri by hugging him or patting his head or _something_. Viktor feels like he isn’t allowed to so much as _touch_ him, which is hilarious in hindsight.

Yuuri turns his teary eyes on Viktor, and Viktor forgets how to move.

“You should go,” Yuuri says suddenly, voice hard with resolve.

“Go?”

“Go. _Please_. I can’t have you in here. This is _bad_ ,” he babbles, strutting his way to the door. “If Celestino founds out I’m in here with _you_ and not The _Duke_ —” he opens the door.

Closes it again.

Spins with his hand over his heart and whisper-screams. “ _The Duke!”_

“I think we’ve already established that I am not him…”

“No!” Yuuri cuts him off, flapping the wings of his robe wildly in the air. “No! You need to _hide!_ ” he yelps, ushering Viktor the opposite way. Does Yuuri mean to send him off the balcony?

A knock at the door stops them both, and as the doorknob turns, Yuuri bends Viktor down so he’s hiding snug and inconspicuous behind the train of his robe.

“Yuuri?” calls the voice of Celestino Cialdini. “May we come in? I’ve brought the Duke with me.”

“Yes!” Yuuri says, and then again, because his voice cracked the first time. He’s a far cry from the face of elegance and grace and mystery that Viktor was lead to believe he was from the few hours he’s come to know him. And yet, Viktor wants to get to know him all the more.

“Hello, sweetling,” the nameless Duke pops into the room. (Viktor attempts to peek at the man over Yuuri’s legs, but he gets a knee to the face for trying.)

“Hello, The Duke. So kind of you to take time out of your busy schedule to see me,” Yuuri greets. He starts swishing the sheer length of his robe some reason Viktor can’t glean. That is, until Yuuri turns his head to the side, far enough that Viktor can see his eyes, and gestures to the left.

Viktor ducks behind the little refreshment table like, he hopes, Yuuri was signalling him to.

“I am very excited to finally meet the infamous Golden Medal of the Moulin Rouge,” says the disembodied voice of The Duke. Viktor hears footsteps. He has no clue whom they belong to.

“You had quite the workout on stage, my dear. Would you care for a—”

“No!” Yuuri shouts. The suddenness of it nearly makes Viktor yelp. But when the Duke’s shiny black shoe rounds the corner of the little table, and Yuuri _screams_ , Viktor _actually_ yelps. Yuuri all but throws himself at The Duke to mask Viktor’s mistake.

Viktor spends the next few minutes shuffling awkwardly, ducking underneath furniture while Yuuri grabs The Duke like he’s trekked through desert for days and he’s thirsty all while he gestures for Viktor _leave_ , _now_.

He nearly does, but he opens the door to find someone standing on the other side, back turned. He closes the door hard. The Duke lifts his head again, and Yuuri dips it down, burying his face in the window of his corset.

“The Duke! You mustn’t toy with me like this!” Yuuri says, head tipped back and staring daggers at Viktor’s throat. He’s gesturing at the window again.

Viktor is _much_ too young for this. He doesn’t fancy jumping three entire stories to the ground below. So instead of listening like he probably should, and consequently giving Yuuri a giant heart attack, Viktor hides on the other side of the bed.

“Oh, _monsieur_ Duke _, ooh._ This—this _power_ you have. It terrifies me,” Yuuri is saying. The bed creaks and shifts under moving weight. “It’s too overwhelming right now. We should wait.”

“What—”

“We will postpone this little rendezvous to another date!” Yuuri’s voice, which is steadily growing distance, urges. There’s the sound of mumbling, the door opening and closing, and what sounds like a body hitting wood.

Curious, Viktor peeks up from his cover and spots Yuuri seated with his back against the door.

“Well,” Viktor says, breaks the stiff silence that was suffocating him. “That was an ordeal.”

Yuuri drops his head in his hands again, and mumbles something that Viktor can’t hear.

“You’re a decent actor. Though I’m shocked The Duke fell for any of that. Do you think he’ll be back?”

Yuuri looks up at him with shocked eyes and slacked lips. “ _Actor?_ You think I’ve been acting?” He stands and pokes a finger to Viktor chest. The touch leaves Viktor shaken from the strength behind it. “Do you know what would’ve happened had you been discovered?”

“Nothing good?” Viktor supplies.

“Nothing good!” Yuuri confirms. “This is a nightmare! It’s too much!” His nostrils are beginning to flare. He’s feeling overwhelmed. Viktor can see it; the trembling in his shoulders and the shiver of his arms; the shudder of his breath and the quake in his lips. He looks like he’s going to cry.

“I’m sorry!” Viktor says as sincerely as he can, hopes that his voice is dripping with it, so Yuuri can find comfort, somehow.

It doesn’t seem to work, because Yuuri seems twice as flustered now, cheeks ablaze and water dripping from his palms. Viktor realizes a little too late that something isn’t right, and Yuuri tumbles for the ground like he’s lost control of his limbs.

Viktor manages to catch him before his head hits the floor, and he gingerly lays Yuuri down on the bed while babbling worried little _“are you alright?!”_ s and _“what happened?”_ s and _“please, please, please, wake up, I didn’t mean to!”_

“Please tell me I didn’t just cause you to die. I wasn’t too hard on you, was I?” Viktor asks again, panicked as all hell.

“Ex _cuse me_?” says the voice of someone unfamiliar and decidedly unfriendly.

When Viktor turns, he’s face to face with a person he doesn’t know. But he’s definitely heard the voice before. Five minutes ago, to be exact.

Yuuri chooses that moment to rouse from whatever nerve-ridden death trance he’d entered. “Oh… The Duke. Hello,” he mumbles. He’s not entirely awake yet.

“ _‘Too hard on you?’_ What exactly is going on here?”

The clarity slowly seeps back into Yuuri’s eyes, and when it does, his pupils are panicked little pinpoints.”We, ah. We were.”

“Practicing!” Viktor quickly supplies. “For the play!”

“Practicing,” the Duke scoffs. “Please. What do you take me for? I walk in and see you in the arms of another man and you expect me to believe that you’re—-”

“Y-yes,” Yuuri stammers, grappling onto Viktor’s shoulders like an anchor as he hoists himself off the bed. “We were practicing for the show. Having met with you I realized how woefully unprepared we are to present the idea to you, _monsieur_. So I called everyone here to meet with me for further practice.”

“If that’s the case, then why—”

As if he heard their prayers (though Viktor is almost positive he’d been standing outside the entire time), Christophe bursts into the room, cane in hand, with Mila, Georgi, and Yuri with one _u_ in tow.

“No, no, that simply wasn’t good. We need to take it from the top!” Christophe shouts.

“I’ll make sure the piano is properly tuned,” Mila says, plopping down at the seat of the grand piano at the corner of the room.

“Let’s hope Viktor doesn’t sound like a dying whale this time,” Yuri helpfully plays along.

Viktor and Yuuri look as lost as the Duke as they stare around at the sudden commotion of the room. It’s like a sentient tornado has decided to make its home here, turning everything upside down as it goes.

The Duke is speechless.

Yuuri looks on the urge of collapse. Again.

Viktor puts on an unsure grin and weakly says, “Surprise?”

The Duke does an impressive imitation of a duck, as he finds the words to say and struggles to be heard over Mila enthusiastically banging on the piano keys in a discordant mess. “Where is Celestino? I demand to speak with him _now!”_

“He’s, ah, he’s, well—”

“Oh, you know how busy Celestino can be,” Christophe says, cutting right through Yuuri’s flimsy words. “I’m sure he’ll be here any minute once he’s finished with whatever business he has to attend to.”

“Actually,” Yuuri cuts in, again, stepping in front of Christophe and hiding him from The Duke’s line of sight, like he means to make him disappear. But Christophe is a few centimeters taller than him, and he still smiles slyly at The Duke while Yuuri continues speaking. “Celestino might be a while because of how busy he is. Why don’t we, um, _show_ you what you’ll be investing in, in the meantime?”

“I suppose I should know the story before making a decision,” The Duke agrees, crossing his arms. He looks Yuuri in the eye expectantly. “Well?”

“Well,” Yuuri says, pauses. Then prompts turns around to address the man behind him. “Christophe? Would you care to explain?”

Christophe is unprepared with this turn of events as all the room’s occupants stare heavy eyes in his direction. He’s smirking, still, but Viktor can see the tiny drops of sweat ready to fall.

This is his time to pitch his amazing idea and impress Yuuri.With that thought, Viktor takes the metaphorical stage, raising his arm dramatically in the air as he states, “This is a story about love!”

“Love?” Yuuri and Christophe say in unison.

“Love,” Viktor nods, “The kind of love that overcomes any obstacle that is thrown its way. The kind of love one can’t live without.”

“The kind of love you’d die for?” The Duke asks, eyebrow raised.

He goes ignored as Christophe takes the spotlight away from Viktor to say, “It’s set in Switzerland!”

“France!” Yuri with one _u_ chimes.

“Space!” Mila says, clapping her hand unhelpfully, “It’s set in space!”

“Russia,” Viktor says, and preens a bit at the eyes on him. “It takes place in Russia, and follows the story of a lost, young Japanese prostitute who wishsd very badly to follow her dreams of becoming a world renowned dancer.” Yuuri’s eyes seem to sparkle as Viktor speaks, innocent curiosity lying behind his lashes.

“And one day!” Christophe says, “A Tsar!”

“Emperor—” Viktor and Mika corrects him.

“The _Emperor_ of Russia becomes smitten after spending one night with the lovely prostitute. She’s enchanting, so you couldn’t possible blame him.”

“But!” Yuuri jumps in suddenly with an idea of his own. “The prostitute did not care for the Emperor. Instead, she was already smitten with a, ah…”

“A destitute, poor, yet _handsome_ dorma player!” Viktor says.

“Right!” Yuuri nods. “The prostitute was already smitten with the dorma player, but they needed to hide their love from the Emperor, lest he find out and put a price on the dorma player’s head.”

“I will be playing the dorma player!” Georgi announces with a flourish of his arms.

“The dorma is magical; it can tell no lie,” Viktor says.

“I can be the magical dorma,” Yuri with one _u_ says. He points at Yuuri, “You’re alright,” then at Christophe, “You’re insufferable,” then at the Duke, “You look like you haven’t bathed in—”

Yuuri slaps a hand over Yuri’s mouth and pushes him aside, giving him a stern look and a forced smile pointed at the Duke, head tilted methodically and all.

“It’ll be amazing! A bohemian spectacular!” Mila shouts with joy. “Filled with flashing lights and dancing, fire eaters and singing!”

“Bohemians and narcoleptic Russians!” Georgi chimes.

“And romance!” Viktor says.

“And?” the Duke says. “What happens in the end?”

“The end...the end!” Viktor pulls Yuuri to the far side of the room, and the rest shuffle after him, throwing blankets and bedsheets over the furniture for a makeshift, sloppily-made set.

“The prostitute and dorma player are pulled away by an evil plan,” Viktor starts, clutching gingerly onto Yuuri’s hands as he pretends to look lovingly into Yuuri’s big brown eyes.

“But their love is strong enough to last a lifespan,” Yuuri continues, intertwining his fingers through Viktor’s like vines.

“The dorma player plays his song.”

“And the prostitute jumps on his _dooong_ ,” Christophe sing-songs.

Yuuri lets go of Viktor’s hands to cover his mouth, turns his head into his shoulder, blocking the smile he adorns from view. But Viktor can see it clearly. His heart jumps a little.

“No,” Viktor frowns. “It’s a _love_ story. They fall in _love_ in the end, after overcoming the Emperor’s evil plan.”

“There’s nothing wrong with expressing your love in a two passionate person tango!”

They’re interrupted with slow clapping. Viktor turns his head to The Duke, standing at the far end of the room, face still like stone. But he has the world’s most unsettling smile on his face.

“It sounds most spectacular. I’d be delighted to invest.”

The room erupts in cheers; they crack the windows with the force of them.

“This calls for celebration!” Christophe says excitedly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1Excusez- _moi_ = Excuse _me_ [return]  
> 2Tesoro = Treasure [return]  
> 3Dolcezza! = Sweetie! [return]  
> 4Voulez-vous coucher avec moi, monsieur? = Do you want to sleep with me, sir? [return]  
> 5mon _dieu_ —! = my _god_ —! [return]


	2. Act II

“Love is a disease which fills you with a desire to be desired.” _—Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec._

✦

_1900, the turn of the century_

The start of the bohemian revolution. Christophe and his troupe and the workers of the Moulin Rouge spend the night celebrating well past midnight, where the moon is high in the sky, bright and tipsy like everyone in the local bars of Montmartre.

Everyone, except Viktor. He wants to spend the night writing, release the motivation that’s he’s currently brimming with. He sits down at this typewriter, cracks his knuckles, and presses his fingers against the mechanical keys. His fingertips are buzzing with the words he has to write, mind effervescent and unable to keep calm.

But he just sits there. Inspiration overflowing, but his fingers are frozen. Because try as he might to focus on writing, he cannot get the thought of the Moulin Rouge’s brillant Golden Medal out of his mind.

Looking outside of his window to clear his mind offers no help, because he has a view of the Poodle Room from here. If he squints his eyes, he almost swears he can see the lovely, elegant form of Yuuri walking around his balcony. It’s a wonder he never noticed it upon moving here; the little abode is distinctly dog-shaped. It’s adorable.

Absently, Viktor wonders whether Yuuri has a weak spot for dogs as he has. Does he have a dog of his own? Does he attract furry, four-legged friends the way he attracts the population of half this side of Paris to the Moulin Rouge? The way he’s attracted Viktor’s affection?

And speaking of affection, Viktor _cannot_ get that sentence out of his mind. It plays like a record on repeat, scratched and bruised, a love-filled mantra that drowns him.

_“I could fall in love with a voice like that alone…”_

Maybe he’s being rash, beyond impulsive like Yakov constantly accuses. Maybe he’s flying face first into the arms of conclusion like a nerve-wracked maiden. But surely, _surely_ , Yuuri couldn’t have said something like that without meaning it? And with a look so genuine.

Viktor can no longer sit here, digging crescents into his palms as he contemplates this. Somewhere in the back of his mind he _knows_. _Knows_ that this is silly, _knows_ how he oftens falls in and out of infatuation like the tide rises and falls every night. But this feels different. Yuuri makes him feel _different_.

(Nevermind that it’s been a single night.)

With resolution fresh in his mind, he stands up…

And meets a drunk Christophe when he opens the door.

“Viktor!” he slurs. “Why are you in here like some sort of hermit? You should be celebrating with us! It’s because of _you_ that everything worked out the way it did!” An arm snakes around Viktor’s shoulder. Viktor finds it hard to break free.

“Not now, I must attend to something, so if you’d please allow me to pass—”

“Nonsense! Care for a bit of rum?” He holds his drink out in Viktor’s face. “What are you so busy with so late into the night? Early in the morning?” Christophe’s face twists as though he’s having a hard time working out the difference.

“It’s important, please. I’ve got to go and, er,” Viktor stops himself, recollects his mind, because he doesn’t fancy sounding like a madman, even if Christophe is barely coherent enough to understand. “I’m seeking answers to very pressing questions.”

Christophe _gasps_. “Is it love?”

“What?” Viktor says far too quickly to not be suspicious.

“You’ve got that look in your eyes. That _‘I_ must _have you’_ look. That ‘ _I want to_ ravish _you’_ look. That ‘ _let us forni—’_ ”

“Okay, no, that’s enough,” Viktor quickly cuts him off. “I’m just taking a quick walk to clear my head.” Christophe stumbles as he tries to kiss his cheek, but Viktor ducks out of the way and out into the hall. “Goodbye, Christophe.”

“Have fun, _mon cher!_ [6] There’ll be more alcohol waiting for your return!”

 

Viktor must have amazing love honing abilities, because just as he thought earlier, Yuuri is sitting outside the vast balcony of the Poodle Room, and his mind seems to be waging war with the aftermath splattered all over his face.

Viktor wonders if there’s something he can do to help, he _wants_ to help. He places a hand and a foot on the wooden trellis that hangs on the side of the little home, but he stops short out of fear. Fear that this is too much, fear that he shouldn’t bother Yuuri at this time of night—because if he isn’t out celebrating with the others, perhaps he isn’t in the mood for company—-fear that, somehow, Viktor is the last person he wants to see at the moment.

But the look on his face when Viktor sang to him last night. The little _‘o’_ shape his adorably pink lips took on in wonderment. The firework sparkles in his eyes and ember blush upon his cheeks.

_“I could fall in love with a voice like that alone…”_

Viktor has to know. He _has_ to.

And it’s that thought that runs like determination fuel in his limbs that he pulls himself up the makeshift ladder and onto the balcony. He’s overzealous when he hoists himself over the railing; his face meeting the ground below.

There’s a little squeal, and when Viktor turns to see where the noise came from, he’s greeted with a wide eyed Yuuri clutching a red robe around himself in trepidation.

“What in the world are you doing here?”

“Sorry!” Viktor says, standing up and dusting the dirt from his knees. “Forgive me. I had no intention to scare you. I saw that you were up here and I climbed up to— “ Yuuri raises a questioning eyebrow at him, so Viktor lets go of that train of thought. “I just wanted to. To thank you. For helping me get the job. I’m incredibly grateful.”

Yuuri is scrutinizing him with a careful gaze as he thinks. “Yes, well. I think you deserve it. You’re quite talented, like Christophe and Mila said.”

Viktor beams, perking up at the praise. “I’m glad you think so. Your opinion seems to matter most here.”

“Hardly. This was never my idea in the first place. I’m just a measly little courtesan. A dime a dozen burlesque dancer.” Yuuri walks towards him. Viktor’s engine heart works overtime. Steam is pouring from his ears, and it seeps faster the closer Yuuri comes, the clearer his pretty brown eyes glimmer into view, with the light from inside illuminating them like a beacon. He wants to take Yuuri’s hand, kiss it like it’s made of gold, and tell him he’s so much more than that.

Then Yuuri walks clean past him and says, “I need to go and get some sleep. We have a big day tomorrow, and I do not want to be tired.”

Viktor’s face has never fallen so fast in his life.

“Wait!” he calls, turning around, reaching fingers touching Yuuri’s shoulder. Yuuri stands rigid, and Viktor pulls away just as quickly. “Please. I came to ask you—I needed to know.”

“Know what?” Yuuri turns to face him again.

“Before. When I was here. When we were…”

Yuuri’s eyebrows knit together. Viktor can’t tell if it’s out of genuine confusion or some form of pity.

“When you thought I was the duke. You said…”

_“I could fall in love with a voice like that alone…”_

“ —-about love. Falling in love. With me? Were you serious?” Viktor asks earnestly. “Or was that—”

“A sham?” Yuuri supplies. “An act?”

It’s as though he means to punctures Viktor’s fragile body with the way he pronounces his words, razor sharp and lethal through his heart. Still, Viktor nods, because he has to know.

Yuuri smiles, and _that_ looks even more pity-filled than the last time. So much that Viktor’s shoulder droops and threatens to fall to the ground.

“Oh, Viktor,” Yuuri sighs. “It’s never my intention to lead someone on. It’s just my job to say what I think men want to hear. Paid to make them believe what they want to believe. And if that means giving them a false sense of love, then…”

“But when you looked into my eyes while uttering those words. The _way_ you said them. It felt so real.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, and his lips turn in a way that Viktor knows he means it. Yuuri looks like he wants to piece something back together if it would help Viktor get over his swift and sudden heartbreak. (Or perhaps, that’s Viktor’s wishful thinking.) “But I simply cannot afford to love anyone.”

“Of course. It was ridiculous of me to think—” Viktor pauses with raised eyebrows. “Can’t afford to love anyone? What does that mean?”

“That I don’t have the time or the talent to love. It isn’t part of the job,” Yuuri states matter-of-factly, shrugging his robe clad shoulders like he’s discussing the invention of the paperclip. But he may as well have told Viktor he’s just discovered a crater on the moon shaped like Celestino Cialdini, because that’s the most absurd thing Viktor’s ever heard.

“You can’t fall in love with anyone?”

“No.”

“Never?”

“Ever,” Yuuri huffs.

“But that’s unheard of,” Viktor states like he’s a certified romance scholar. “No one can go without love.”

“I can,” Yuuri says. “And I have. And I can’t, like I’ve said.” By the slight muttering in his tone, Viktor can tell Yuuri is quickly becoming fed up with this conversation. But Victor is on a mission, one with the important task of showering someone with all the love they’ve ever deserved. To think that Yuuri has gone without is—it’s _unheard of_. Absolutely _unheard of!_

“But, Yuuri, love is like oxygen. It’s life sustenance. Love is—” Viktor starts in a sing-song voice.

Yuuri quickly interrupts him, shoulders slouched with exasperation. “You’re not going to start singing again, are you?”

Viktor ignores him, and does exactly that. _“All you need is love.”_

“Oh my god,” Yuuri mutters into a hand placed over his face.

“All you need _love—_!”

“I’ve got to _eat_.”

“All you need is looo-o-ooooove.”

“I’ll end up on the street!”

“I could teach you what it means to love, if you’ll just give me one night,” Viktor says.

“No offense, but I hardly believe someone who speaks of love like an ametaur masking like a scholar can teach me what love is. Besides,” Yuuri turns in a flourish, head over his shoulder, staring at Viktor in that _way_ that’s akin to a flame-tipped arrow through his lungs, and Viktor is left breathless. “I’m quite expensive.”

“Not that kind of night!”

Yuuri looks incredibly confused. “What are you talking about?”

“A date,” Viktor says.

“A d… a d…. A da....”

“Date,” Viktor repeats helpfully.

Yuuri’s brain has seemingly short-circuited at that notion, sparks flying out of his head and all, because he opens and closes his mouth like a broken machine and his face has gone red with overheating. “I have no time to go on a _date!”_ he squeals with a voice an octave higher than normal.

“Think of it as a learning experience! Besides, Christophe did say the Moulin Rouge would be remodelled soon, which gives you plenty of time for yourself, right?”

“To practice! Honestly, Viktor, this is ridiculous and I cannot go along with your silly, whimsical ideas,” Yuuri turns to leave.

In a burst of confidence, determination, and flat out stubbornness, Viktor side steps around Yuuri and blocks his path to his back door. He shimmies his shoulders. “I was made for lovin’ you baby, you were made for lovin’ me?”

“The only way of lovin’ me baby is to pay a lovely fee,” Yuuri responds, punctuating this with a jab to his chest. “And I know you can’t afford it, _monsieur_.”

“Just one night! Just _one_ night!”

“There’s no way,” Yuuri rolls his eyes. “You can’t pay.”

Viktor twirls around the balcony as he continues to sing. “I can’t survive without your sweet _loove_.”

“Enough with your silly love songs,” Yuuri says, crossing his arms over his chest. Viktor hates to admit to himself that he falls ever so slightly harder at the exasperated look Yuuri gives him. Viktor is sure a genuine smile would leave him dead on the ground and food for the vultures. “If you mean to try and tempt me somehow with them, it won’t work.”

“I’m nothing if not persistent,” Viktor says, and he runs up to the tip of the balcony, jumps onto the railings with only his hand clutching the pole there as an anchor. He looks to the streets below, and with lights in his eyes, he says, “Love lifts us up when we’re down! Wouldn’t you like to soar with me, Yuuri!”

Behind him, Viktor hears Yuuri panicking, with whispered shouts of, “Get down from there! Are you mad? You’ll fall! No love in the world will save your face should it splatter to the pavement!”

He easily complies, hopping down from his precarious perch to regard Yuuri again. Yuuri looks flustered, but Viktor guesses that’s from the split-second panic Viktor gave him. “Then how about this,” Viktor says, hand held out like an offer on a silver platter garnished in gold shavings. “A crash course in love.”

Yuuri stares at his decisively empty palm. “You want to give me lessons in love?”

“No, actually,” Viktor shakes his head. “I want _you_ to give _me_ lessons in love.”

Yuuri blinks, incredulous. “What? Me?” His lips form a lovely little moue and his eyebrows knit together like a seam. “Why?”

Viktor looks around the space of the balcony like he fears someone will overhear them before looking to Yuuri and lowering his voice. “Between you and me, I actually don’t know a thing about romantic, passionate love. Everything I know is solely from storybooks and tall tales.”

“Well. Yes. I figured. You spout about it like a man trying to masquerade. It’s… overly saccharine.”

Shoulders slumped, Viktor pouts his lips as he whines, “Coming here might have been a mistake after all. But I felt I would have achieved nothing staying in Russia. I needed a new perspective if I wanted to excel in my craft, and I must show Yakov that writing isn’t for naught.” He sighs forlornly as he leans his elbows against the railings, chin in his palms. The lights that glitter against Paris are beautiful, but it’s not enough to blink away the dark doubt that clouds his mind, it seems.

From his left, Yuuri is starting at him pensively. Viktor can feel his white-hot gaze singeing his hair. When he lets slip a hum, Viktor turns. Startles.

Because Yuuri is a lot closer to him than he realized. He can see the view reflected in his pristine, brown eyes. Golds and blues and whites like fairy lights on his lenses.

Paris’s lights may not be enough to dissolve the doubt, but the soft curve of Yuuri’s smile as he brushes a finger against his arm, definitely is.

“Okay,” he says, soft but with finality. “I’ll help you. But just this once. And only because we’ll be working together from now on.”

Viktor could squeal in delight right now. He bites his knuckles to keep his silly little noises in. Yuuri accepted! He’ll indulge in Viktor’s wishes!

How wonderful life suddenly is, now that Yuuri’s in his world.

✂

“A _date?!_ ” Phichit squeals the next day. “You’re going on a date with the writer?! Yuuri! Are you mad?”

“Shh!” Yuuri pressed his hand against Phichit’s mouth, and looks around the backstage area, praying that no one is snooping around in the shadows. Once he deems the space clear enough, he lets go of Phichit’s mouth and gives him a stern glare. “Don’t speak so loudly! And it’s not a date!”

“Not a date? But you said he called it a date. What else is it, then?”

“A chance to get to know each other seeing as we’ll be working with each other. I’ve been made the lead in the show, Phichit, you _know_ this.”

“Yes, and I know that that’s exactly what a date sounds like. How scandalous! The Moulin Rouge’s Golden Medal—having a regular inquiry into the writer’s _lower garments,_ ” Phichit waggles his eyebrows, snickering to himself.

Yuuri, with bright red cheeks and a pout on his lips, takes the nearest object—a throw pillow—and tosses it at Phichit’s head. The satisfying _thunk_ makes him smile. “We’ll be learning from each other. _Stop that_. You _know_ I’d never do something like that.”

“Yeah, yeah, because we can’t, because it’s not apart of our contract, blah blah, I’ve heard this a million times before,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand and a roll of his eyes. “Still, you’ve got to admit, this is rather new for you. You’ll be spending an exorbitant amount of alone time with some strange man? And _not_ for money? Not to mention that this isn’t the first time.”

“The first time was a complete mix up,” Yuuri huffs, pulling his cardigan tighter around himself self-consciously.

“You grabbed his cock. Like hell nothing happened.”

“I thought I was meant to!” Yuuri says defensively. His face _burns_ , so he tries to hide his woes in the clammy palms of his hands, only to find that his hands have gone warm from overheating, too. “I had no idea he wasn’t The Duke! This is embarrassing enough as it is, I do not want to talk about that.”

“Okayyy,” Phichit jests like the cheeky bastard he is. “You have fun with your ‘research’ with the handsome writer,” he says with air quotes, smirk across his lips.

“I swear to God if you tell Yuuko or Ciao Ciao about this—”

“Tell Yuuko and Ciao Ciao about what now?”

Yuuri and Phichit jump as the new voice joins their conversation. And it’s Anya, of course it is. The gossip vulture herself must have been lurking in the shadows, just like Yuuri was worried about. But it doesn’t seem likely, since Yuuko is right behind her.

But Anya has a _look_ in her eyes that gleams like a secret is caught between her teeth. Yuuri shivers.

“You aren’t up to any mischievous antics, are you, Yuuri?” Yuuko asks curiously.

“He’s doing nothing at all,” Phichit pipes up, arms wrapped around Yuuri’s shoulder now (Yuuri doesn’t know when he’d gotten close to his side, batting his eyes like he’s feigning innocence everyone in the Moulin Rouge _knows_ he doesn’t have). Phichit pats Yuuri’s chest with his free hand, smiles at the unimpressed raised brow expression Anya is currently giving him. “Just a little rendezvous with our local famed writer. He’ll be working on lines and _choreography_ for the show.”

Yuuko blinks from Phichit, to Yuuri, and back again. She has an odd look of concern on her face. “Pray tell you won’t get into trouble with him. You’ve heard about the ultimatum with The Duke, haven’t you?”

“Yuuko!” Yuuri shouts, scandalized and frowning. “When have I ever!”

“Hold on a moment—ultimatum?” Phichit cuts in.

“Didn’t you hear, lovelies?” Anya speaks. She looks incredibly impish. “The Duke required some security to ensure this business endeavor isn’t a lost cause. He asked for the deed to the Moulin Rouge as security.”

“Oh,” Yuuri gasps, hand pressed against his mouth. “Ciao Ciao must have been hard pressed to agree with that.”

“That isn’t too bad considering the whole thing is going to be torn down and made into a theater,” Phichit says with a nonchalant shrug. “The man is paying for the whole thing. That’s hardly an ultimatum.”

“You think someone as business savvy as The Duke would ask for solely _that_?” Anya snickers.

Yuuko doesn’t look pleased. Yuuri is scared.

He asks like he’s treading carefully through fields of sharp glass. “What...else did the Duke ask of him?”

“The Duke wants you, Yuuri.” Yuuko answers. “He wants to court you. He won’t accept the investment deal unless he’s sure you’ll accept his offer as well.”

“Quite surprising really since he didn’t get his money’s worth that night. But I guess you managed to enchant him somehow,” Anya says.

Yuuri feels his shoulders fall the exact moment Phichit squeezes them, trying to hold him in place. He isn’t weak, though. This is nothing new. Men are ravenous, constantly after his hand and the sensuous spread of his legs. He should be used to this. But courting? Being bound by contract to an absolute stranger?

“You don’t have to go this though,” Phichit reassures him. “You said it yourself—”

“The irony is palpable,” Yuuri laughs humorlessly. “But I have to. For the sake of everyone else. We’ve wanted this for ages, and I cannot let this opportunity pass us by because of this one small obstacle.”

“Are you sure? What about you? You’ve got to take yourself into consideration, too. It’s okay to be selfish,” Yuuko says, taking his hands in her own.

“I am thinking for myself,” Yuuri tells her with finality. His jaw is set like stone with resolution. “And I’m thinking that it’s worth it if it means seeing my dreams realized.”

✂

Yuuri is beginning to think that agreeing to the offer was a terrible idea. The cause of his doubts is one Viktor Nikiforov, who’s decided to show up on his doorstep the night of the _Wreck du Moulin Rouge_ (as Christophe has decided to affectionately name it) with flowers. A small bouquet of gardenias clutched in his pale hands.

With a perplexed expression, he blinks down at the put together look Viktor has adorned himself with, and Yuuri is left wondering where in the _world_ he’d gotten the waistcoat and velvet coat that appears soft to the touch. Absently, Yuuri wonders just how smooth the fabric would be against his fingertips, if he could count the threads one at a time.

Realizing that he’s said nothing, only stared at Viktor for an inappropriate amount of time, Yuuri blinks up at him and eloquently greets with, “Hi.”

“Hello, Yuuri,” Viktor says. Did his name always sound so feather-light on his tongue? Yuuri cannot remember. “I have the perfect night planned for us.”

With his conversation with Phichit fresh in his mind, Yuuri cannot help but laugh on the inside about the irony of this situation. It’s even more hilarious considering he answered the door in slight disarray—hair falling over his face, wrinkled and loose red night gown clinging to his body, and that same red coat he’d worn the previous night thrown over his shoulders now to answer the door with some shred of decency.

“Um.”

“You look beautiful,” Viktor continues.

That comment makes Yuuri sputter. “I didn’t know we were doing this _now_. I’m hardly ready!”

“Surely no one would care if you went to the _Le Chat Noir_ dressed that way.”

“The—we’re going to another cabaret? As if I don’t see enough of those on a daily basis already!”

“I assure you, Yuuri, this one is different. I heard from Mila that they feature shadow plays!” He’s smiling so widely, Yuuri dares to think that it’s a little endearing the way his childlike innocence makes his eyes shine like diamonds. “I’ve never seen one before! I don’t know if you have either. Perhaps I should’ve asked you beforehand after all?”

“No, it’s fine. I—” Yuuri looks down at the state of his dress, feels the flush of his cheeks as he looks back at Viktor (has to blow the bits of his hair that falls into his eyes). “Let me change into something more appropriate. I’ll be just a moment.”

Abruptly, Yuuri shuts the door before Viktor can say anything more, and he leans his back against the wooden surface as he tried to compose himself. He can feel the molten heat running through his paper thin cheeks, and he’s beyond perplexed at the feeling of his heart drumming a beat against his ribcage.

This is new.

This is different.

But this is—exhilarating. And the night has hardly started yet.

Yuuri reckons that he deserves this. For just one night, he can enjoy himself while mutually giving Viktor the experience he needs in order to write the show. This will be helpful to the both of them in the long run. For one night, he will allow himself to indulge.

With new found excitement, Yuuri searches the back of his closet for something light and unassuming to wear; he’d rather not risk being seen and recognized in the other cabaret. He doesn’t bother with pomade in his hair, only brushes quick fingers through the black locks and placing a wide brim hat over his head. Once he deems himself ready, he opens the door again and finds Viktor there, playing with his platinum fringe as he trying to look at his reflection on the metallic doorknob.

Viktor straightens up, clears his throat, and wordlessly hands the gardenias to a giggling Yuuri.

“Thank you very much, _monsieur_. These are lovely.” He brings them up to his nose, gets hit with the fresh scent that’s like mist to his sunny face, and he beams. Quickly, he dips back inside to the run water into a vase and drop the flowers in, then he meets Viktor back outside, closing the door beside himself.

“You don’t have to keep calling me that,” Viktor says sheepishly. There’s red on his cheeks, like he’d applied blush to them. But Yuuri knows that wasn’t there a few minutes ago.

“Sorry,” Yuuri says. “Force of habit. Shall we go?”

“Of course, my dear. After you,” Viktor sweeps the air in front of him as if to guide Yuuri along. “Mila suggested _Le Chat Noir_ would be perfect because it’s within walking distance. Have you ever been?”

“I know where it is. I just don’t see a reason to go when I’m too busy at the Moulin Rouge. It’s all kind of the same scene, in a way.”

“Ah, but the Moulin Rouge doesn’t do shadow plays or open stages, nor does _Le Chat Noir_ have can-can dancers and beautiful burlesque entertainers that cater to the bourgeoisie.”

Yuuri gives Viktor a sidelong glance with a smirk curling his lips. “Are you saying that I’m nothing more than a can-can dancer? That’s awfully presumptuous of you. I didn’t know you were so _mean_ , Viktor.”

Viktor stammers in embarrassment, and Yuuri can’t help the way he laughs out loud and lets the sound carry in the wind.

The walk is a brisk twenty minutes, and by the time they’ve arrived, the place is nearly packed with patrons. It’s a tiny, cozy space, far smaller than the Moulin Rouge, with booths on either side of a wide center aisle. In the dimmed lighting, they manage to find an empty table against the wall, halfway to the stage where the entertainment is meant to take place.

“I’d like to get something to drink, I think,” Yuuri says. “I wonder if champagne is sold here.”

“Definitely not. The audience here is nothing like that of the Moulin Rouge and…” Viktor leans in close so he isn’t overhead. “Between you and I, I could not afford to pay for champagne.”

“Who says you’re paying?” Yuuri says, before standing to his feet. Viktor gawks at him as he saunters to the nearby bar in search of drinks for the both of them.

They dine on wine and liquor while idly watching an assortment to self-proclaimed artists come up to the stage to sing, act, dance, and sprout long lines of poetry. It’s fun for the first hour, while Viktor and Yuuri, sitting opposite each other, watch with wonder as people from all backgrounds showcase their talent.

By the second hour, Yuuri finds himself a giggling mess and seated right beside Viktor, thighs pressed in close proximity, giggling at everything Viktor says. They’re hardly paying attention to what’s happening on stage anymore. The spotlights have been turned on, pointed at the cut-out figurines that are casted on the wall, gloomy and mysterious like the stories accompanying them.

“—I swear it,” Viktor is saying. “Walking my darling Makkachin, I saw a person who so much resembled a dog himself I couldn’t help but stare. I wasn’t looking at where I was going and was moments away from falling straight into the ravine. Luckily, Makkachin stopped before we’d both had our baths for the day.”

Yuuri has to press his hand against his mouth so as not to cause a scene, but his stomach _aches_ from laughter; a rush of air goes through his nose as he makes the most peculiar sound, and he covers his mouth in embarrassment, blush high on his cheeks, particularly singeing his fringe.

Viktor blinks at him, staring with wide eyes, before he laughs out loud, too. Then they both dissolve to hysterical laughter.

“Your dog sounds wonderful,” Yuuri sighs wistfully “I’ve always wanted one.”

“Why not get one?” Viktor asks. “I’m sure there’s an adorable stray waiting to be adopted and dying to have your love.”

Yuuri— _looks_ at Viktor with his drunk-hazy eyes, sees that the writer is giving him puppy-dog eyes, as though he’s really referring to himself. Perhaps he’s being genuine with his sentiment. In this state of mind, Yuuri can’t be bothered to figure it out.

“I couldn’t possibly care for an animal when I have to take care of myself. But maybe, if this venture pans out and I can become a professional dancer…” Yuuri’s eyes glaze over, foggy with the same thoughts he always has. “One day I hope to fly away…”

“Yuuri,” Viktor says suddenly, so close Yuuri can feel the ghost of his breath caressing his ear ever so gently. “What is your dream?”

“My dream?” Yuuri repeats, raising his brows. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m just. Curious.”

Yuuri shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly. “I’d just like to be a dancer. It’s nothing special. And it’s not that different from you, yes?”

“From me?” he points at himself.

Yuuri nods, placing his chin on crossed hands, elbows on the table. “Writing is as much of an art as dancing is. You’re making poetry with words while I attempt to make poetry with my body.”

“Believe me,” Viktor says. He grabs one of Yuuri’s hands, delicate like it’s made of glass, and on any other occasion Yuuri would be annoyed at being treated in such a way, but he gets lost in the overwhelming, inundating, drowning look in Viktor’s eyes as he stares at him like he means to place soliloquies in his hand where his lips meet his palm. “There are no words in this language or any other that could possibly compare to your dancing.”

Yuuri is a blushing mess, and he has nothing but the wine to blame.

He ducks his head demurely, then startles—because there's a loud, boisterous band playing upbeat music suddenly, and the lamps have been turned on to illuminate the cleared space of the floor.

With a gasp and a rush of waves curling through his body, Yuuri sits up, grabbing Viktor by the shoulder. "Let's dance."

"Ah—" Viktor hesitates, looking from the small crowd of people who's gathered on the makeshift dance floor, back to Yuuri. "I'm not very good at dancing, actually."

Yuuri frowns at that. "I saw otherwise that night at the Moulin Rouge. C'mon, Viktor. Show me just how talented your body is at making poetry."

He doesn't give Viktor another chance to back down. He grabs his hand without a word, and laughs and laughs and laughs while Viktor stumbles over himself in the tiny space they have to move their bodies to the melody of the music.

"I'm not drunk enough for this," Viktor shouts, loud enough for Yuuri to hear.

Yuuri places his arms tight around Viktor's shoulder, takes the lead, and smiles, an incandescent spotlight that blinds Viktor's eyes."I'm too drunk for this. It's okay. We can both be bad together."

 

Viktor and Yuuri's feet are equal parts mauled like they've been through a grater, battered and bruised with evidence of their clumsy feet, a testimony to how much they've stepped on each other during the night's duration. But Yuuri can't say he doesn't enjoy that. For the first time in years, he's genuinely happy.

✂

With the Moulin Rouge torn down and being constructed into a theater, they begin work on the show immediately.

Viktor, with his newfound inspiration, begins to write the storyline of the play. It doesn't take much brain work on his part. All he has to do is recall the smile that touches Yuuri's lips, rose petals blooming in the springtime, and his inspiration comes like fuel that overflows his mind and spills out in the form of words on a page.

Christophe seems to notice this, because he sits at Viktor's side with a knowing grin on his face. Viktor doesn't even notice this until Christophe makes a wispy little sound.

"How did you get in here?" Viktor asks with a start.

"We've just replaced the hole with a temporary latch, Viktor. It isn't that difficult to crawl through."

Ah, right. They should really get that fixed. It was covered with a rug at first, but after the second time Yuri fell through, nearly breaking his legs on the way down and spewing curses for twenty minutes, they'd decided that a sturdy alternative would be safer for everyone.

"Why are you in here?" Viktor decides to ask. "You'll ruin my concentration."

"As if. You were so deep within your own thoughts you didn't even realize I've been here for the past thirty minutes."

" _Thirty minutes_ —?!"

"How was your little rendezvous with our resident Golden Medal?" Christophe hums, leaning forward so Viktor knows he has his full, undivided attention.

Viktor would rather not spill a word. Half because Yuuri made him promise not to, and half because the memories are too special to share with anyone else. And he knows anyone who hears of how they ended up back at Yuuri's place and accidentally woke up in each other's arms will take that to mean something else. Something obscene. But Viktor's (situation? relationship?) with Yuuri is not like that.

(He'd been thinking about how adorable Yuuri looked with that single gardenia flower behind one ear all morning. Like a treasure that Viktor wants to keep for himself.)

(But he can't be selfish. Yuuri isn't _his._ )

Instead of answering, Viktor gives Christophe a noncommittal sound and a shrug of his shoulders.

"What does that mean?"

"It means," Viktor waves his hand vaguely in the air. Christophe huffs, unsatisfied by that answer.

"You're no fun," he says with a pout. "Anyway, I came to tell you that we'll be starting rehearsals here in the next few days, and Yuuri will be coming to join us from now on."

"Really?" Viktor perks his head up, eyes shining at the prospect of being able to work closely with Yuuri.

Christophe notices; that smirk is back on his face again.

Viktor clears his throat, tugs at the collar of his shirt, and gives Christophe an impassive look. "What," he says.

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

 

It's the motivation and thought of seeing Yuuri act out the words he'd personally written that has Viktor completing the script in record time.

He's there, watching Yuuri and Georgi (who is given the role of the penniless dorma player) go through the first run through of the words with awe on his face, because he'd never thought he'd be here, watching his words come to life before his very eyes. As underwhelming as it may seem, watching them do this in a tiny apartment filled with cracks and peeling wallpaper, it's exciting all the same.

Yuri keeps scoffing at him, tells him that this isn't something to be excited about. It's just a small rehearsal. Viktor cannot tell if the young boy really likes him or not. He swears that he's worlds better than JJ the former writer, but he's not very quick with handing out compliments.

Yuri with one _u_ may not be so nice, but Yuuri beams like a torch after every scene, tells Viktor this his words are truly amazing, makes Viktor _preen_ like a baby bird.

During one night of rehearsal, when it's just him and Yuuri and Georgi, and Georgi has fainted from yet another narcoleptic spell, they sit side by side on Viktor's bed as Viktor takes Georgi's place temporarily.

Yuuri sighs with longing, thumbs his gentle hands across the flimsy white pages, and in the lull of the quiet he hums to himself.

He says, "I could fall in love with these words," and Viktor thinks it's the cruelest thing.

Because he's already fallen madly in love with Yuuri.

 

The first time it occurs, it feels like a complete accident. But it also feels like _fate_. (When Viktor retells this story, he’ll always, without fail, claim the latter.)

Viktor blames it on the two glasses of wine they’ve had, that Yuuri had brought over, and they’ve drunken slowly as they read through the pages in the quiet of Viktor’s apartment with the candle light as their only witness.

They’re reading an important part of the play, where the Japanese prostitute and penniless dorma player find themselves alone on a balcony, the tension in the air so thick it makes it hard to breathe. They’re dancing, heartbeats palpable things that act as their melody.

Yuuri looks directly at Viktor, wine glass in one hand, script in the other, and Viktor watches the mesmerizing way the flames flicker in his brown eyes. He imagines that that’s what it’ll look like, to see his characters dancing on stage.

“I can’t help,” Yuuri says with a whisper that sends a wave of shivers down Viktor’s spine. His eyes are half-lidded and desire-fueled. “Loving you.”

He’s close. Impossibly close—like the tension is alive and physically pulling them together. Viktor could count each individual lash framing Yuuri’s lovely eyes if he wanted to.

“Viktor,” Yuuri says, soft, slow, amused smile on his lips. “Your lines.”

Oh—

These words are his own, yet he finds it difficult to recall what’s supposed to come next. There’s a pause as he tries to remember, and Yuuri is a patient angel as he waits. As grandiose as Viktor can be, he’s never been much of an actor.

“How wonderful life is,” Viktor says, mouth moving on his own, with the sharpness of Yuuri’s features as his guide. “Now that you’re in the world.”

Yuuri gasps—a quiet thing that Viktor wouldn’t have heard had he not been centimeters from him.

“What?”

“Those...those aren’t the words.”

“No?” Viktor makes to glance down at the pages again to double check, but he’s stopped by a hand gently grasping his chin.

His head is tilted up, lips naturally parting on their own like he’s been taken over, and in the next second—

Lips, slightly chapped, and so so soft, pressed against his own, causing his pores to bursts like effervescent fairy lights at the seams, making Viktor lose the ability to breath all together. Viktor feels like he’s been dipped in a multicolored cloud, mind hazy with wine, drunk on Yuuri’s lips.

When Yuuri pulls away, Viktor opens his eyes, sees the way Yuuri looks peaceful with his lashes brushed against the apples of his cheeks. And he wonders if this is okay. There’s a spark of anxiety in him that wonders of this is overstepping, that maybe they shouldn’t, that, despite the tiny bits of alcohol, their judgment is impaired. That there’s been murmurings that Yuuri is, in fact, in love with The Duke. That Yuuri will forget about this.

That Yuuri will remember, and hate him for it.

But Yuuri squashes all of Viktor’s thoughts down with one fell swoop, a peck on his lips, and the words, “You’re going to be bad for business, I can tell.”

Viktor throws his script behind himself, scoops Yuuri up my the wrist, doesn’t bat an eye when his wine glass crashes to the floor, and kisses him once again.

 

It’s some time later that Viktor finds out about the deal with The Duke.

Viktor is practicing with the others again, in the expansive space of the Moulin Rouge where the theater will soon reside. The place is filled with the noises of construction, but they prefer to rehearse here rather than attempt to squeeze nine people into one tiny room.

It’s here that Viktor meets two of the Moulin Rouge’s infamous can-can dancers, Phichit and Anya. Sara is also here, with Mila sat comfortable in her lap.

“And then you say,” Viktor is telling Georgi. “Thanks for curing me of my ridiculous obsession with love.”

“Figures,” Anya speaks up from the chair she’s sitting in, watching alongside Phichit. “No one in their right mind would go for a penniless hermit when an Emperor is offering the world and more.”

“But the Emperor doesn’t truly _love_ him. Not like the dorma player,” Phichit scoffs. “It wouldn’t be a bohemian love story if the prostitute ended up with the Emperor.”

“I’m just saying,” Anya says, raising her hands defensively in the air. “Take Yuuri, for example. He’s _clearly_ going to fall for The Duke when The Duke is offering him a chance to become the pretty little dancer he’s always dreamt of being. Not when Viktor hasn’t a penny to his name.”

“Anya!”

Yuuri is frozen in place, eyes glued to the smug look on Anya’s face. The whole room feels like Arctic Ice.

“Oh,” Anya says disingenuously, placing a hand over her mouth. “Did I strike a cord?”

Yuuri briskly walks out of the room, leaving his script behind, and Viktor quickly follows after, hearing the distant voice of Yuri saying, “Look what you’ve done now, you hag!”

“Oh, please, you screeching gnome,” Viktor hears Anya’s fading voice reply. The lilt of her voice is an irritating itch on his side. “You’d really sit by idly and watch Yuuri ruin this for everyone because he’s too selfish to think about…—”

“Yuuri,” Viktor starts, placing a hand on his shoulder once they’ve stepped inside a quiet hallway, hidden away from the others. Yuuri seems to be shaking, quivering under his touch.

“Did you tell anyone?” Yuuri promptly asks.

“No!” Viktor answers, quick and biting. He softens his voice, adding, “Never. I would never think to betray your trust. Even when Christophe and Mila pestered me, I vehemently denied.”

They fall into silence for a few moments, and Yuuri uses that time to take deep breaths. Viktor feels them rattle his skin and shudder his bones where his hands still lay against his shoulder, a present, grounding weight. “I’m sorry,” Yuuri says finally. “I didn’t mean to yell at you.”

“You had reason to. I don’t blame you.”

“Anya is too meddlesome for her own good. I should’ve known she’d found out eventually. I just wish she wouldn’t find out _now_ of all times…”

“You,” Viktor pauses, biting on his bottom lip. He only continues once Yuuri turns around to regard him. He asks the question that’s been festering in the back of his mind. He’s been trying to ignore it all this time, but it’s been growing like a parasyte. A gross, green, jealousy-filled parasyte. “You’re in love with The Duke?”

“No,” Yuuri says, shaking his head so hard Viktor fears he’ll end up concussed. “ _Mon dieu_ , no. I’d sooner die than sleep with The Duke. I’ve been bound to spend time with him for the time being, while we’re undergoing production. But,” Yuuri looks up at Viktor earnestly. “I’d much rather spend time with you. Always.”

The way those words set Viktor’s heart aflame is criminal. Yuuri ought to be charged for arson. “What will you do if The Duke finds out about us? What if he insists on keeping you to himself?”

“I do not belong to him,” Yuuri tips his chin upward with resolution. “I will postpone any time I have to spend with him if I have to, until opening night. If we’re successful, we will no longer need the help of The Duke, nor will I be required to be with him.”

“Oh, Yuuri…” Viktor brushes a finger over the line of Yuuri’s jaw, and Yuuri tips his head to the side, leaning into the touch.

“The Duke makes me feel a small fraction of what you do,” he says. One of his hands come up to cradle Viktor’s against his face. He presses his soft lips into Viktor’s palm. “You’ve made me realise how terrible a life without love is. I don’t regret being with you.”

“And you, darling, showed me how wonderful love truly is,” Viktor smiles, speaking softly, so his words don’t break the illusion of the quiet bubble they’d create.

 

“And the magical dorma, who only speaks the truth, says—”

“That’s my line!” Christophe interrupts Viktor.

“I thought _I_ was the dorma player!” Yuri huffs.

“No. You said, and I quote, ‘I’d rather brush my tongue with a bed of nails than spew that cliched, lovey-dovey rubbish’.”

“So the dorma player says—”

Yuuri sets on a chair in front of Viktor, blocking him from view, and giggling while he recites the words. “The greatest thing you’ll ever learn— _ah!”_

Viktor wraps an arm around Yuuri’s midriff and tugs him away from his spotlight. They twirl in the middle of Christophe's living room with reckless abandon. (It’s an open secret now, and they have no reason to hide in the face of their close companions.) “Is to _love—”_

“And be loved in return!” Christophe finishes, arms spread wide like a showman.

In the corner, like the brooding teen he is, Yuri feigns gagging noises. “Ugh. This is why I’m not the dorma player.”

✂

As Viktor and Yuuri spend more and more time with each other, Yuuri notices that The Duke becomes increasingly persistent with his advances. Try as he might, Yuuri thinks up every excuse he possible can to evade all of them. It’s all he can do to not end a night in the same room as him, alone and uncomfortable with the feeling of bugged-out eyes crawling through his skin.

Instead, Yuuri always, _always_ tells The Duke he’ll be busy rehearsing lines with Viktor and dancing choreography with Georgi and Christophe. That’s what he usually did, at first. But their time together began slowly devolving into quiet evenings where they say nothing, only allowing the whisper of their hands and lips to speak for them.

But Yuuri suspects that it’s getting harder to evade The Duke.

“My—Yuuri,” Viktor says, stumbling over his words. Yuuri catches it, how Viktor was moments away from using one of his adorable pet names that are infectious and never fail to make Yuuri smile. “I was wondering if you’d like to meet me tonight to rehearse the new scene. ‘ _Will the lovers be meeting at the dorma player’s humble abode?’_ I’ve worked out the final kinks in it and would like you to help me see it to completion and ensure it’s good enough for the show.”

“But!” The Duke cuts in, sitting up straight from the seat he’s taken beside Yuuri. “ _Mon cher_ , what about our dinner plans tonight? I’ve arranged a supper for us in the tower! Surely you’ll meet me there?”

“It’s fine,” Viktor says with a sad smile and—no, no, no, Yuuri cannot have that. Sadness doesn’t belong on Viktor’s handsome face. “We can work on it another time.”

“Nonsense!” Yuuri says, standing to his feet. “The ‘ _The lovers_ will _be meeting at the dorma player’s humble adobe’_ scene is one of the most important parts of the play! We simply cannot postpone rehearsal if we want this production to be on par with The Duke’s expectations.”

“But—” The Duke starts.

Yuuri places a quick finger to his lips, and _shivers_ when he feels his gross mustache brush against the pad of his index. “I’m terribly sorry, The Duke,” he says, giving him the most apologetic look he can muster. “Perhaps another time.”

With The Duke’s back turned to him, Viktor holds his hand out to Yuuri, giving him a little wink that makes Yuuri bite at his lip lest he risks giggling and giving them away. Viktor whisks him away, leaving The Duke to stew, frazzled and upset, by himself.

 

“Good work, family!” Celestino’s booming voice shouts, rattling the unsteady foundations with it to be heard by everyone in the room. “We will begin work on _Act Two: the lovers are discovered_ first thing tomorrow morning!”

He feels a sharp, purposeful tap on his shoulder, and turns around, frown already affixed on his face with he sees The Duke there looking cross as all hell.

“Dear Duke!” Celestino greets, faux-amicably. “Everything has been arranged tonight to your liking. I hope you will enjoy your supper with Yuuri.”

“Quite unlikely considering his affections seem to be waning,” The Duke hisses through his teeth. “I understand that the play needs to be amazing. I have high expectations. But he’s always rehearsing with that damned writer!”

“Yuuri is a hard worker,” Celestino says, pleading with him. “You must recognize that he is never satisfied with stoddy performances. He will work himself to the bone if it means a flawless performance.”

“Is one measly night alone too much to ask? I’ve given him a new dressing room, new dresses! I’ve spend a fortune on this endeavour!” The Duke grabs Celestino by the collar, startling him with the sudden close proximity. Celestino is far taller than The Duke, but the enraged look he gives him makes him feel small. “If he does not join me in the tower tonight, I will leave and take my investments with me.”

“No! Nonononono—no need for that!” Celestino laughs nervously. “I will talk to Yuuri and make sure he takes the night off to join you.”

“Good,” The Duke spits, roughy letting go of Celestino’s collar. He straightens out the unsightly wrinkles as an afterthought. “I expect him there at eight o’clock sharp.”

Celestino is bumbling mess of nerves when he disappears out into the halls in search of Yuuri. They’ve gotten so far. This opportunity cannot be ruined for them. If he only explains this to Yuuri, he’ll understand. Celestino’s sure that he’s willing to sacrifice one night of dining with The Duke to save their skins—

That is, unless, Yuuri is far too busy smacking lips with their writer to humor The Duke for one night.

He spots them, tucked away behind the pillar, locked in an embrace with no indication of where one mouth ends and the other begins.

Celestino waits until Viktor walks away before confronting Yuuri about it.

“ _Dolcezza_ , what do you think you’re doing! You cannot keep resisting The Duke like this when he holds the deeds to the Moulin Rouge! And you’re going behind his back to fool around with Viktor?”

Yuuri looks scandalized the way he peers at Celestino. He doesn’t even attempt to explain it away. Not that that matters. Celestino _witnessed_ them.

“I—It’s nothing,” Yuuri says in a small voice, not daring to meet his eyes. “I-it’s...a small infatuation. I’m only humoring the writer for the time being. I—”

“You have to stop this immediately if you want to see your dreams realized,” Celestino sighs, placing a hand on Yuuri’s trembling shoulder. “The Duke is threatening to leave if you don’t meet him in the tower tonight.”

Yuuri takes a deep, gulping breath, closes his eyes, gets lost in something Celestino cannot see.

“You should end things with the writer now before you both end up getting hurt.” With one final pat on his shoulder. Celestino turns to walk away.

He stops, turns back to peer at Yuuri and sees the conflicting emotions he wears like paint across his face. He wants to say something of comfort, wants to will the anxiety away, but Celestino doesn’t want to make things harder for him. Yuuri already has too much on his mind; he’s holding the entire Moulin Rouge’s foundations on his lithe little shoulders.

“He expects you there at eight o’clock tonight,” he says, before leaving.

✂

It’s seven thirty.

Yuuri is a tidal-wave. A wreck of emotions he can’t contain. It shakes his shores to the core.

He hasn’t gotten the chance to tell Viktor about where he’ll be. But he cannot risk going to see him and being late to dine with The Duke.

Everyone is relying on him. _Him_. He cannot let them down. It’s the last thing he’d ever want to do. Yuuri had taken on the responsibility of being one of the biggest earners when he’d agreed to become the posterboy of the Moulin Rouge. And now, he’ll be the face of the theater. He owes it to Celestino, to Phichit and Sara and Anya, to everyone he works with to not sabotage this for them for his own selfish comfort.

After they’d been so kind to take him in, he cannot stand the soul-crushing thought of seeing their disappointed faces because he’d single-handedly destroyed this for them underneath the soles of his careless shoes.

As hurtful as Anya’s words were, and as much as Yuuri would like to block out what Celestino had told him earlier, he knows, in the crevices of his mind, where that nagging voice kicks and screams and causes an ever-present echo he can’t always ignore, that they’re right.

Yuuko pulls the bows of the dress Yuuri is wearing taunt against his back. Yuuri doesn’t bother telling her that it’s too tight, that he can’t breathe. He’s certain that no amount of loosening will bring the breath back to his aching lungs.

“Are you ready, Yuuri?” Yuuko asks him.

(He feels lightheaded. His thoughts as a jumble of _no, no, no, no, no, no, don’t fail, don’t fail, don’t fail, don’t fail, you mustn’t let down the only family you’ve ever known—_ )

“Yuuri?”

( _Do. Not. **Fail.** )_

“Y...Yes,” Yuuri says with an air of dejection, like he’s agreeing to his own funeral.

Yuuko holds out her hand for Yuuri to take, and Yuuri holds onto it like a lifeboat that’s keeping him from drowning.

He takes one shaky step forward.

It isn’t enough.

He goes down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 6mon cher = my dear [return]


	3. Act III

“Love is when the desire to be desired takes you so badly that you feel you could die of it.” _—Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec._

✦

“—he be okay?”

“Tomorrow morning, at the earliest.”

“Worst case scenario...consumption.”

“ _What?!_ ”

“...not likely! —There’s been an outbreak running rampant through Montmartre and…”

“...case of Neurasthenia, of which hysteria is a known symptom… not life threatening, but expensive to treat.”

There’s a jumble of words that flow in and out of Yuuri’s hazy mind like a stream. He can’t concentrate on one thing long enough before another takes it place, a budding flower that gets crushed again by the next passing thought. The cycle continues.

Yuuri doesn’t remember anything apart from the unclear dreams playing like grainy films on the back of his eyes. He hardly remembers what happened the night prior. The only thing he recalls is Yuuko’s hand, a warm and reassuring presence at his side, and the feeling of lightheadedness that slowly filled his head like a wine glass.

To calm himself, Yuuri zeroes in on the voices in the room. They’re familiar and not his own. He can discern more than four of them surrounding him.

He cracks one tentative eye open and immediately closes it again when a flood of harsh light hits his lenses, and he hisses audibly.

“Yuuri…?"

“Mmmm,” Yuuri responds unintelligibly.

Clinging, vicelike arms scoop him up into a sitting position and wrap him in a tight, bone crushing hug. Yuuri can do nothing to defend himself besides wheeze in agony.

“Phichit, be careful! You’ll hurt him! Let him rest!”

“Oh, Yuuri! I was so worried. I thought you’d died or something. You scared us so _much_ —”

With great effort, Yuuri manages to open one eye and peer down at the black bed of hair belonging to a hysterically babbling Phichit.

“‘M okay,” Yuuri mumbles. “What happened?”

“What happened is that you collapsed right before we were on our way to see The Duke,” Yuuko explains from behind Phichit. “Minako came to check up on you and ensure you’re alright.”

Like a waterfall, dread fills the pit of Yuuri’s stomach. He wants to open his mouth to speak, apologize, sob, _something_ , but he’s afraid that his meaningless, guilty words will spew onto the bed sheets, and no one will want to hear any of it.

He doesn’t know what happened.

Yuuri tries so very hard to remember. But that only makes his head ache.

“It’s okay, Yuuri,” Yuuko assures him. “You need only rest for the time being. As long as it takes. Don’t worry yourself into a coma now.”

“But—but—The Duke—”

“The Duke won’t be pulling his investments away,” Celestino pipes up. Yuuri startles, jostling Phichit’s arms around him, and blinks through the beaded tears forming in his eyes to see the man standing at the foot of the bed. He looks more somber than Yuuri has ever seen him and Yuuri can’t gauge whether that’s from his recent dealings with The Duke or Yuuri’s own seemingly inadequate health.

“What do you mean?” Yuuri asks. “He’s not mad?”

"Quite the opposite, in fact," Celestino says with an edge of smugness to his voice. "I've left him wanting you more now than he already has—"

"Fantastic," Yuuri whispers dryly under his breath. Only Phichit hears from this proximity, and he snickers.

"—and convinced him to hold off on having you in his bed, since I know you were apprehensive about that. The most time I could buy you is opening night.”

“But how? How did he comply so easily? You made it seem like he was angry with me…”

“The Duke was seconds away from leaving, and with the panic, I told him that you’d gone to confess. I felt that he wouldn’t take the excuse that you’d fallen ill well, regardless of that being the truth.”

“What could have possibly served as a better excuse than the literal truth?” Sara scoffs questioningly, standing further away from the bed Yuuri is layed on. Yuuri is just now realizing that she’s there alongside Anya.

“Knowing how much of a textbook pervert he is, I’m willing to bet he’d induce an orgasm solely from the thought of knowing Yuuri’s a virgin,” Anya says.

“Actually, yes, that’s exactly what I told him,” Celestino says casually.

Yuuri blinks several times, mouth agape, and the rest of the room looks on in shock.

“You told him that egregious lie?!”

Celestino sputters. “Of course not! Who do you think I am?! I simply told him you had the urge to see a priest to confess, because he made you feel like a virgin.”

Yuuri knits his brows together. “Touched for the very first time?”

Phichit snorts. “I can’t believe it. Anya and Sara were spot on.”

With a heavy, long suffering sigh that rattles his shoulders, Yuuri rubs his hands over his drooping eyes. He feels tired suddenly, like the weight of the situation is wearing him down. He cannot fault anyone. He’d agreed to this, and it makes him all the more apprehensive.

He lets the topic go for the time being, instead focusing on a slightly more pressing topic. “What did Minako say? About why I collapsed?” He looks to Yuuko, who’s wringing a damp towel in her hand. Her eyes are deep set and dark underneath; she’d been up all night caring for Yuuri.

“She, ah,” Yuuko pauses to chew on her bottom lip and looks to Celestino.

Yuuri snaps his head towards the man and is shocked to see him look grim. A wave of dread, thick as broth, climbs Yuuri’s throat. He doesn’t speak; he waits for Celestino to find his words.

“It’s nothing dire,” Celestino tells him. “However, we will have to wait for opening night before we can do anything about it since treatment is expensive. There’s nothing to worry about, dear,” Celestino offers him a reassuring smile. “For the time being, the show must, and will, go on.”

Yuuri finds it hard to believe him, so his own smile in return is shaky and full of worry. He squeezes Phicht’s hand for comfort.

✂

Yuuri doesn’t see Viktor for two days, and when he does, Viktor looks besides himself with worry and concern and frustration and conflict. There’s a perpetual mark in between his brows. Yuuri wants to reach up and press it away with his lips.

“Where were you?” Viktor asks bluntly, sat in his room with Yuuri lounged forlornly on his bed. Yuuri had come here to talk to him, but he has yet to bring himself to find the words he needs to say. So he’ll let Viktor speak until he himself is ready.

“I told you,” Yuuri says, eyes wide and pleading. “I fell ill. I couldn’t tell you where I was, nor did I go to see The Duke that night. If you don’t believe, you can ask Celestino or Yuuko yourself.”

“No,” Viktor sighs, pressing his hands into his eyes. “No, I believe you. I just don’t understand. You were going to see The Duke?”

Viktor looks heartbroken. It’s a stab to Yuuri’s chest, straight through his heart. It makes it hurt worse, knowing what he’d come here to do.

“I had to. The Duke was going to leave. Celestino and the others would’ve been upset. I would have single-handedly destroyed this opportunity for _everyone_. I had no choice, Viktor. You must understand.”

Viktor sits beside him, holds Yuuri’s hands in his pale ones. Yuuri realizes with a start that his own skin doesn’t contrast that starkly against Viktor, not like it should. He really must be falling ill.

“I understand,” Viktor says like the saint he is. “It’s not fair to be upset with you when I know you’re in a difficult situation. But,” he smiles, soft and a little pained. “It’s only for a little while, yes?”

Yuuri’s face falls, because he knows. He knows that he can’t be cruel enough to Viktor and give him false hope. He’s filled with guilt as utters the words. “Let’s end this.”

Viktor, in turn, pauses, blinks, frozen in place like the words haven’t entered his ears and registered in his brain. “What?”

“We have to end this,” Yuuri says more clearly, though his voice quivers for his efforts.

Viktor can do nothing but shake his head in disbelief, clutching onto Yuuri’s hands tighter. “Why? Did I do something wrong?”

“Celestino knows. Everyone _knows_. And it’s only a matter of time before The Duke finds out, too.” Yuuri hates to cry, never _ever_ does it in front of others, and he doesn’t plan on crying in front of Viktor now. He knows Viktor will want to wipe his tears away, gently like always, and that’ll make this harder than it is.

Still, he can’t stop them from welling up in his eyes. He quickly blinks them away and hopes Viktor doesn’t notice.

But Viktor does notice, because he’s staring intensely at Yuuri. The wrinkle between his brows has returned.

“You don’t really mean that, do you?”

There’s something about that sentence, the way Viktor says it, whispered into the quiet of the room while running his finger along the line of Yuuri’s wrist, that makes Yuuri burst.

“No,” Yuuri says. He blinks faster, but it’s futile. The tears are a steady stream running down his face, and Viktor wipes each one away with care, just like Yuuri thought he would. “No, but it doesn’t matter. Because I’ll have to sleep with The Duke opening night, and I’ll end up hurting you. You don’t deserve that.”

“I don’t care if it hurts me as long as I’m with you in the end,” Viktor says earnestly. He stands suddenly and takes Yuuri up with him. “We’ll add a new scene.”

“Huh?”

“We’ll choreograph a secret dance, set to a secret song. So that, should the lovers ever be separated, whenever we hear it, whenever we dance it, we’ll know that we still… we still love each other.”

That makes Yuuri start crying all over again, with his heart so full it overflows onto the floor below. “You won’t get jealous?”

“I promise,” Viktor punctuates this with a kiss to his hand, and Yuuri wipes away the last of his tears.

For the first time in three days, he allows his sunshine smile to part the rainclouds in his mind.

✂

And so, with the help of Georgi’s choreographic expertise, and Yuuri’s dancing skills, Yuuri teaches Viktor how to waltz.

He’s clumsy on his feet, a baby deer on ice, but he has the time of his life. He loves having an excuse to cling to Yuuri like a vice, arms wrapped around his strong shoulders. He loves that Yuuri dips him to the floor, loves the rush that brushes over his heart every time. Viktor had been scared at first; it was like a trust fall he didn’t have time to prepare for, which ended with his ass to the floor. Yuuri held his mouth over his hand, apologizing profusely, but Viktor laughed nonstop until it was contagious and Yuuri was laughing along, too.

After he’d gotten used to it, it was akin to an adrenaline rush. The beam of Yuuri’s face makes his heart soar every time.

He pitches this last minute idea to The Duke and Celestino, less than two weeks before opening night, and they give him permission to include it.

With the added scene, and Celestino’s quick-wit in allowing Yuuri extra time before he has to spend a night with The Duke, no one bats an eye when they spend a large amount of time together. Everyone but The Duke knows of the true nature of their relationship, anyway. Celestino may be under the guise that Yuuri had followed his advice in splitting with Viktor, but Viktor suspects that Celestino knows better.

Ah, well. Viktor doesn’t mind the secrecy. As much as he’d like to show Yuuri off to the world like an ornament, tell the world that _this beautiful creature is_ mine! _Can you believe it?_ he wants nothing more than to make Yuuri happy. If that means swallowing down the temporary, budding envy he feels slowly building in his chest, he will deal with it.

He sits with Yuuri in his apartment, like they’ve done so many times before. Yuuri’s things are strewn around the place like printed proof that he’s been there. (Which is good, because sometimes Viktor has a hard time believing that he’s real. That this has happened, and it’s not just some elaborate fever dream.) He’s left a pair of shoes where, during a night when he’d gotten so tired he’d fallen asleep on Viktor’s couch, mouth slightly opened and lightly snoring. Christophe carried him back to his dressing room. There’s his coat that hangs on a hook next to Viktor’s door, and Viktor hugs it sometimes when he misses Yuuri dearly, even though that only ever means a span of twelve hours. But it feels like centuries.

Yuuri had left his gardenias in a vase here, the one Viktor gifted to him on their date months ago, because he said he’d enjoy the sight of them here more.

It’s mid afternoon when they practice their dance again, just four nights before opening night. It’s the lover’s dance, meant for Yuuri and Georgi on stage, and no one but them will know what it truthly means. The thought makes Viktor smile.

“What are you smiling at?” Yuuri asks. He looks up at Viktor through his lashes. It’s sunlight through foliage.

“The thought of you,” Viktor admits.

“Must you always be so cheesy?” Yuuri says, rolling his eyes without malice.

“I’m afraid it’s ingrained in my blood, darling. If you’d like me the stop, you’d literally have to suck it right out of me.”

Yuuri gives Viktor a _look_.

Viktor has no time to prepare. It’s like a trust fall, only instead of dipping him, Yuuri goes into his space, leaving not a single centimeter between them and makes a valiant effort of sucking Viktor’s breath from between his teeth.

It’s not a trust fall, but Viktor tips over, landing with his back to the bed, Yuuri a comfortable weight on top of him. Yuuri has to pull away when the shock of the fall tears him from Viktor’s mouth, but once they’re settled, Yuuri’s lips slide against Viktor’s again like they belongs there. Viktor holds onto Yuuri’s waist for dear life.

And then Yuuri moans into the space between his lips, does this _thing_ with his tongue like he’s trying to coax Viktor’s mouth open, and Viktor all but collapses like a weightless mannequin against the bed sheets.

There’s a lot of sounds Viktor enjoys. Love songs, rushing water down a waterfall, waking up to the lovely sound of birds chirping when the sky is a gradient of pastels.

But nothing, _nothing_ , will compare to the sound of Yuuri moaning with abandon, clinging onto Viktor’s shoulders, head lolled back, eyes disappearing with the roll of his eyelids—and Viktor on top of him, a panting, wild mess brimming so thoroughly he’s ready to really burst this time. And Yuuri tells him, with a heady voice, that _Viktor_ makes him feel full, so so _full_.

It’s the most wonderful sound in the world. Nothing could ever compare.

✂

One day before opening night.

The theater is complete in its preparations, chairs pushed to the side in anticipation for the people who will be seated there. The props have already been set up, and the cast is here, running through the play a final time to be sure it’s ready.

Viktor sits and watches the final scene from the side, and feels a warm bubbling in his chest at being able to see his creation play out before his very eyes. He imagines this is what it feels like, the bittersweet feeling of watching your own flesh and blood grow up.

The lovers, Yuuri and Georgi, sing their special song, dancing across the stage as though they’re gliding on ice. It’s a vision. It’s beautiful. It causes Viktor to beam.

Then, Christophe, the magical dorma player, is suspended on ropes from the rafters of the stage and says his lines. _“The greatest thing you’ll ever learn—!”_

“Stop,” The Duke says suddenly. The stage and all of its occupants pause. Anya is right behind The Duke, smile sly across her mouth, arms crossed over her chest. Viktor gets the very sudden sense that he should be afraid.

“I don’t like this ending,” The Duke continues. “Anya raises a good point. Why would the Japanese prostitute go for the penniless dorma player when the Emperor’s wealth is more than enough to meet the prostitute’s needs? He can offer a lifetime of security. That’s real love in and of itself.”

The quiet in the room is suffocating. It feels like the ground is quickly being ripped right from underneath Viktor.

“The dorma player will simply leave the prostitute once he’s had his fill. I suggest that the ending be rewritten, so that he ends up with the Emperor instead.”

“But!” Christophe interrupts, perched like a sad little cupid high above the stage. “That sort of ending will not uphold the traditional bohemian ideals of truth, beauty, freedom, and—”

“I don’t care about your stupid, made-up doctrine!” The Duke shouts, vein popping on his forehead in his frustration. “Why on earth would he pick someone as lowly as a dorma player over an Emperor?”

Viktor’s mouth moves before his brain can properly catch up, and he blurts into the open, quiet space of the theater. “Because he doesn’t love you!”

And it echoes. As if hearing it once wasn’t enough of a regret.

“Him. He doesn’t love him,” Viktor corrects. But it’s too late. The Duke is staring at him with narrowed eyes.

“ _Monsieur_ Cialdini. I want the ending to be rewritten so that the prostitute ends up with the Emperor, and I want the lover’s secret song and dance removed,” he stands with an air of finality, peering with hard, unwavering eyes at Celestino. “This revision will be practice tomorrow morning so it is ready in time for the show tomorrow evening.”

“But—My dear Duke, that is simply not possible! There isn’t enough time!”

“Celestino,” Yuuri calls from his perch at the center of the stage. He takes on a regal sort of stance. Could make men bend at his knees with the smouldering look he gives The Duke. “The poor Duke is being treated so appallingly.”

He walks down the wide steps of the stage, struts across the floor, and stops directly in front of The Duke. Slowly, he places his hands on the lapels of The Duke’s coat, smoothing out the wrinkles, and speaks lowly so no one else is able to hear them.

But Viktor can hear everything from where he stands.

“You know how those silly writers are,” Yuuri says with an air of carelessness. “Always letting their imaginations run wild.”

The Duke huffs a breath through his nose as he stiffly stares down at Yuuri.

Yuuri continues by running his hand over the front of The Duke’s chest, a gesture that would be considered scandalous had it taken place in any other location. “Why don’t you and I enjoy a little supper tonight, hm? Then afterwards,” Yuuri taps his finger against The Duke’s nose, and watches as The Duke begins to lose his composure. “We can tell Celestino how we’d like the show to end?”

The Duke opens his mouth, then closes it again, at a lost for words. Finally, he mutters, _“Very well,”_ under his breath, then turns to leave.

And when he does, Yuuri places a quick hand over his fast-beating heart.

And Viktor feels utterly destroyed.

 

He lets Yuuri know that later, hidden backstage and concealed from the others.

“I don’t want you to sleep with him,” Viktor pleads, hanging onto Yuuri’s hands.

“I… I’m sorry,” Yuuri whispers. “He could ruin _everything_. I’m thinking of us, Viktor. We can be together once opening night is over.”

“But—”

Yuuri places a finger against Viktor’s lips, looks up at him through his sunshine eyelashes, but they’re just filled with pain. “You promised me you wouldn’t get jealous.”

“But I cannot stand the thought of him—with you— _inside_ you...I—”

“This is nothing more than serving another client,” Yuuri tells him, dropping his finger to clasp at Viktor’s hand again. “It means absolutely nothing. Please remember that. You’re the only one who matters to me.”

Viktor doesn’t say anything, lets the words sink in, a reminder he has to play in his head over and over again until it sticks true.

“I have to go,” Yuuri says, so lowly Viktor can barely hear it. But, as soft as the words are, they’re harsh enough to stab him. “He’s waiting.”

Reflexively, Viktor grabs his wrist, ready to yell out, _no!_ But he sees the knit of Yuuri’s brow and the way he chews on his lips until they’re raw and red, and he knows Yuuri doesn’t want to do this just as much and Viktor doesn’t want him to.

So he let’s Yuuri go.

And he waits.

✂

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting for too long,” Yuuri says in greeting to The Duke once the man has opened the door to the tower to let Yuuri in. He’d left his room shaking like a leaf, had to be comforted by Yuuko and Phichit for a solid thirty minutes before he finally built the courage to come here.

They’d assured him that he didn’t have to go through with this, but he knows that isn’t entirely true. They’ve gotten too far for things to come apart now, right before their collective dreams can be realized.

The Duke kisses his cheek, a continental gesture, but it makes Yuuri’s heart run cold. He feels ill all over again.

“Not at all, my dear. I’m exceedingly happy you decided to join me tonight.”

“Of course,” Yuuri smiles, tight and ingenuine.

The Duke leads Yuuri tight by the waist towards the ornate dining room, where a delectable meal lies in wait on a long wooden table. Though Yuuri hasn’t eaten since morning, he doesn’t feel an ounce of hunger right now. Every nerve in his body is telling him to _run_ , but he forces those thoughts down. He has to deal with it.

He has to sell this for the time being, let The Duke believe what he wants to believe.

“I’m… terribly sorry about earlier. That silly writer has a strong infatuation with me.”

“Why, I can hardly blame him,” The Duke sneers. “You’re quite lovely. Anyone would be lucky to have your attention. That rambunctious bunch of bohemian nimrods included.”

“Hm,” Yuuri hums. “Well, I am indulging his fantasies for now because he’s talented, and we need him,” he gives The Duke a pointed look. “But only until tonight.”

“Of course,” The Duke agrees, that creepy little smile curling underneath his creepy little moustache. “Only until tomorrow night. I cannot wait to have you, my dear.”

Yuuri smiles wryly. He misses Viktor dearly. “Neither can I.”

The Duke leads him to the table, where they eat and discuss—something. Yuuri’s mind is wandering, conjuring up more pleasant thoughts than his current situation, like waxing. He absently eats the food The Duke’s maid serves on his plate, and picks at a majority of it with his fork. When The Duke asks whether he’s not enjoying his meal, Yuuri gives a noncommittal hum, tells him that the meal is delicious, but he’s already quite full.

“Come with me, sweetling,” The Duke beckons, rising from his seat. Yuuri freezes when he disappears into a room, fearful that it’s the room he’d least like to meet him in.

But he remembers that he has no choice.

He doesn’t understand why this is so hard. He’s done this dozens of times, lain down with countless men. And yet this time feels different. This time, he knows what loves truly feels like. And this time, the guilt ravages him like fire.

With his back turned, The Duke brandishes something sparkling and shiny from a decorated box, and Yuuri curiously walks to his side to peer down at the object in his hand. It’s a necklace, filled with diamonds and rubies, and it catches the moonlight from the nearby balcony with blindly gorgeous color.

Yuuri gasps. “It’s…”

“A gift to you, my dear. Accept it.” He leads Yuuri over to the open balcony, where Yuuri can better appreciate the iridescent colors that shine along the expertly cut surface of the jewels. “When this play succeeds,” he says, “and you cease to be a can-can dancer, a mere courtesan,” he carefully winds the necklace around Yuuri’s neck. The expense of it is palpable with the way it lays heavy along Yuuri’s collarbones. “You will be an actor. A _danseur_. And I will make you a _star_.”

Yuri gulps, hopes that The Duke, in his close proximity, can’t hear it.

“And the play?”

The Duke’s come lips to Yuuri’s neck. His breath is a malicious thing, and the feeling of wanting to _flee_ runs hotter through Yuuri’s veins.

“Let Cialdini and that writer keep their fairytale ending.”

Yuuri closes his eyes, breathes a sigh a relief that he hoped would cool the heat and doubt and nerves in his body. But it doesn’t help. The Duke has his mouth on him, and Yuuri gasps like muscle memory, and it doesn’t help. His hands grip Yuuri’s hips, tight and possessive, like Yuuri belongs to _him_ , and _it doesn’t help_.

He begins to feel prickling in his eyes, but he blinks it away, because of all the people he’s willing to feel vulnerable in front of, The Duke is the lowest on that list.

Yuuri makes a sound, some sort of cross between a moan and a sob, and The Duke must take that as meaning enjoyment because he doubles his efforts, suckling on Yuuri’s neck with earnest.

He wants nothing more than to _run_.

And as he’s breaking on the inside, succumbing to his fate, the worst sight comes into view: down on the streets below is Viktor, looking up at him, appearing just as broken as Yuuri feels in that moment. He walks away briskly, but Yuuri reaches his hand out over the balcony as if to reach for him.

The incessant mouthing on his skin stops.

The Duke’s breathing is heavy against the shining spot of his neck.

“I see,” he says lowly. Yuuri can feel the holes he burns through the side of his head. “Our very own dorma player.”

Yuuri turns around, wide-eyed and pleading. “My dear Duke—”

“Quiet!” He shouts, taking Yuuri roughly by his wrists and dragging him inside his bedroom. He’s shaking, enraged, steam pouring out of his ears. “You made me believe you loved me.”

“Duke—”

“You _lied_ to me, all this time!”

He tears the necklace from Yuuri’s thorat, watches the jewels rain and splash to the floor.

Yuuri shakes for an entirely different reason. He needs to run, _Run, run, run, run, run—_

The Duke grips Yuuri’s arms, makes Yuuri yield to the bed, and Yuuri kicks and screams with shouts of, _“No!”_ and screams of, _“Let me go!”_

He’s strong. He knows he is. Has spent years building the muscle he needs in order to glide like a dancer, light on his feet.

But in this moment, he’s ice.

Completely frozen.

The Duke tears the top of Yuuri’s dress in two, doesn’t listen as Yuuri’s wheezing sobs shake the room. He’s alone.

This is his fault.

He’s ruined _everything_.

.

.

There’s the sound of a door closing shut in the distance, and Yuuri doesn’t have the time to wonder what that sound is before The Duke is lying unconscious beside him.

Yuuri sits up and _breathes_ like he’d been underwater for hours. The taste of air is sweet on his tongue.

When he blinks away his tears, and through his bleary eyes, he spots Otabek, hard expression on his face and a vase in his hands. Otabek wordlessly drops the vase, doesn’t flinch when it crashes and shatters to the ground, and offers his coat and his hand to Yuuri. He gladly takes them both, ready to leave this place and never return.

 

Otabek walks Yuuri to Viktor’s apartment, and the relief he feels when he gets to see Viktor’s face makes him drowsy. He’s exhausted, suddenly, as he falls into Viktor’s arms and cries until his eyes are red.

“Viktor, I couldn’t do it,” he hiccups, choking back sob after heart wrenching sob. The only thing keeping him from falling apart this very second is Viktor’s arms, holding him together like cement. “I couldn’t do it. He knows. He—he _knows_. He saw you and he knows and he won’t keep the play as is anymore. He’ll change everything and get rid of you. I—I’m so _sorry_.”

Viktor lays his chin to rest on top of Yuuri’s head and squeezes him tight. “It’s okay, Yuuri. It’s okay.”

“I didn’t want to pretend anymore,” he babbles on. “I was so sick of lying. I couldn’t do it. Viktor, I love you.”

Viktor clutches Yuuri by the chin and turns his face every so slightly up so he can see the full expanse of Yuuri’s features in all of its red and splotchy glory. Yuuri can’t see Viktor through his tear-hazy eyes, but he imagines his countenance is one of patience, and affection, and all the things Yuuri fell in love with.

“You don’t have to pretend anymore,” Viktor tells him while kissing away his tears. “It’s okay, darling.” Then, he adorns that face that tells Yuuri an idea has crossed his mind. The kind of face that’s steadfast and stubborn and leaves no room for arguing. “We’ll leave. Tonight.”

“Leave?” Yuuri questions through little sniffles. He wipes the residual wetness from his cheeks. “But the show…”

“Who cares. I don’t care about the show. As long as I have you, I couldn’t care less about chasing far away fame.”

“Okay,” Yuuri nods, letting the idea sink into his whirlwind of a mind. “Yes, okay. As long as we have each other, we’ll be fine.”

“Otabek,” Viktor calls. The young man straightens up from his position at the doorway. “Take Yuuri to his dressing room so he can pack his things.” He turns to Yuuri, kisses him on either cheek, then the tip of his nose. “Darling, I’ll wait for you here. We have to leave discreetly. No one must know.”

“I understand,” Yuuri nods again with a little more certainty. “I’ll see you soon.”

He follows Otabek out of the door.

 

Yuuri’s heart is ready to jump out of his chest when he stalks back into his dressing room. He pulls the nearest, biggest bag he can find and starts hastily tossing any and every piece of clothing and personal items he can get his hands on.

“Sorry for the intrusion, _dolcezza_.”

Yuuri jolts in shock, and turns to see Celestino standing in the doorway. He looks somber again. Yuuri’s absolutely terrified.

“You shouldn’t do this, Yuuri. The Duke is insanely jealous.”

Something about that statement causes Yuuri to _snap_. He’s already feeling more vulnerable than he can bear tonight, cut wide open for the world to see, so his thoughts and emotions are at the forefront of his tongue, ready to _spew_ and vent his endless frustrations.

“I’m _tired_ of this, Celestino! I’m tired of this life! I’m tired of feeling like my worth is only what strange men pay me, and I’m tired of being told love isn’t something I can ever lay claim on. I deserve to love just as everyone else. I’m a person, too! Let me be selfish for _once in my fucking **life**.”_

“Yuuri,” Celestino says weakly, forced into silence. “You don’t understand.”

Yuuri expected himself to be a crying, blubbering mess by now, but he’s cried all of his tears hours ago. His tear ducts have dried. He’s done crying.

“What is there to understand? I can finally life a live worth living, and I don’t want anyone getting in the way of that,” Yuuri turns his back, continues to stubbornly shove items into his bag. “We’re leaving the Moulin Rouge. Viktor and I are going far away.”

“And you’re willing to leave your family behind? Phichit? Yuuko? Sara?”

Yuuri pauses mid-folding. He doesn’t attempt to answer.

“Regardless, you shouldn’t leave, because The Duke threatens to kill Viktor should he not get his ending.”

The shirt in Yuuri’s hand drops to the floor. He clutches the nearest surface to keep from tipping over from the force of his heart falling to the pit of stomach.

“Wh—what?”

“He doesn’t want Viktor anywhere near the Moulin Rouge. He _will_ kill Viktor if that writer dare show his face here.”

“But,” Yuuri shakes his head, gasps for the breath he can’t seem to find. “No. We’ll leave. We’ll go where The Duke can’t find us—”

“He will find you, and he will kill you both,” Celestino laments. “I am only telling you this because I don’t want to see you both get hurt.”

Yuuri has to sit down. His legs are threatening to collapse from underneath him. All over again, that familiar feeling of dizzying sickness and nausea and shaking overtakes his body.

“If Viktor cares for you like you claim he truly does, he will try to come for you, and risk his life doing so.”

“What are you suggesting,” Yuuri says, whispers it into the quiet of the room. He already knows, and he doesn’t like the prospect. At all.

“You must send him away. Convince him that you no longer love him.”

Yuuri stares at the wall, unseeing, shaking his head in complete and utter rejection. He doesn’t want to do that. He doesn’t want to _lie_ anymore.

“You’re a good actor, Yuuri. You’ve done it for years. You can do it one last time, if only to save him. If we want the show to go on, there’s no other way,” Celestino turns his back, utters the words, “I’m sorry.”

When Celestino leaves, the tears start up again, an unclogged waterfall that runs freely from his eyes. He can’t do this. He _cannot_ do this.

But if it means saving Viktor and sparing his life…

He’ll do anything.

(It scares him, the lengths he’s willing to go through for his love. The love songs always speak of worlds filled with roses and dancing on clouds. No one ever warned him about the inevitable heartache.

But, he supposes, this is his punishment for being momentarily selfish.

This is his punishment for believing that love could be a thing that he, a creature of the underworld, a sinful, promiscuous thing, could afford to have.)

He cries.

And he cries.

And he cries.

And he hopes, dearly hopes, that tomorrow will never come.

✂

_Opening day_

All night Viktor waited, pacing along his apartment, waiting for Yuuri to return, packed up with his things and ready to leave as soon as he’d gotten there. Viktor’s own suitcase is waiting by the door. The sun is rising over the horizon, and Yuuri has yet to come.

He starts to get worried, wondering if Yuuri had second thoughts. Viktor doesn’t blame him; it was a split second decision tossed out in the tumultuously emotional moment, and Yuuri hadn’t been entirely lucid. Viktor himself was hardly thinking when he made that suggestion. He just knew he wanted to keep Yuuri safe, as far away from The Duke as possible.

But who is he, little more than a stranger in Yuuri’s life, to uproot Yuuri from the life he’d known for years now? It isn’t fair to him. And now that Yuuri’s alone, and had time to think, he’s having doubts.

Viktor makes the decision to go see Yuuri and confirm this. He briskly walks to the door and opens it—

He’s greeted by the sight of Yuuri. Dressed in black. No bags or suitcase in sight.

He looks dressed for a funeral.

“Yuuri,” Viktor sighs, taking one of Yuuri’s hands in his and makes to place a kiss there, but Yuuri pulls it away. Viktor blinks in shock. “Yuuri? What’s wrong?”

“Viktor, I’ve.” A minute bob of his adam’s apple. “I’ve come to say goodbye. I’ve decided to stay with The Duke.”

Viktor smiles unsurely like this is meant to be a joke. But Yuuri doesn’t smile back.

“After I left, The Duke came to see me. And he—he offered me everything,” Yuuri says this with a smile that’s so insincere he may as well be speaking to a wall. Viktor feels like a wall—stuck and rooted in place, and only the force of a wrecking ball could uproot him, and annihilate him in the process. Perhaps that would be less painful than Yuuri’s next words.

“He had only one condition. That I never see you again.”

No.

No. No. _No_.

_No, no, no, no, nonono—_

“You don’t mean that,” Viktor says, the sense of deja vu hitting him squarely in the face. He hopes that Yuuri will answer the way he did back then, but Yuuri doesn’t. He nods his head, disingenuous smile in place. A smile that doesn’t fit right on his beautiful face.

“You knew who I was, Viktor. You knew that when I told you I couldn’t afford to love. That holds true to this today. I’m… sorry.”

“No. No, no, no, I can’t accept that—you can’t—you can’t— _Yuuri_. What about last night? What about our promise to each other? Yuuri, you can’t leave me—not like this,” Viktor is crying. He’s crying, and he hadn’t noticed until Yuuri becomes a mosaic in the flesh, and Viktor can’t see that stone-cold, poorly fit smile on his face anymore.

“We’re two different people from two different lives. This is my _home_. I cannot leave the Moulin Rouge and disappoint my family.” There’s a lilt in Yuuri’s voice when he says that that makes Viktor believe it’s truth.

And for a moment, he doubts himself. Doubts everything he’d believed in the past four months. Doubts the love Yuuri might have felt for him.

But he knows this isn’t right. There’s something _wrong_. Yuuri isn’t himself, and there’s something _wrong_.

“There’s something wrong, isn’t there? Yuuri, you can tell me,” Viktor begs, holding Yuuri’s hand again. This time, Yuuri allows him to hold on. “Tell me what’s wrong. Tell me what’s really happening. Tell me the truth.”

Slowly, Yuuri removes his hand from Viktor’s lose grip. He turns to leave, but not before tearing out Viktor’s heart and throwing it to the ground one last time.

“The truth is this: I’m a Japanese prostitute, and I choose the Emperor. That’s how the story really is.”

✂

Viktor can’t take this. Refuses to accept this as truth. He knows something isn’t right here, can’t get that inkling feeling out of his mind that there’s something Yuuri isn’t telling him.

This thought plays like a mantra in Viktor’s mind as he walks to the Moulin Rouge with resolve. He’s high on exasperation, lets his anger at The Duke fuel him as he walks directly into the newly formed theater.

He has no time to appreciation the surroundings, the decorations or the props or the thought of his vision being realized. Not when he has one and only one person on his mind. He needs to confirm his thoughts, needs to hear it from Yuuri again with serenity, won’t believe a word until Yuuri says that he doesn’t love him anymore to his face.

“Yuuri,” he says like a prayer when he spots him, standing center stage and commanding attention like he belongs there. A star.

“Yuuri,” he says again when he’s near. He notes absently that the reverberating sounds have stops. All eyes are on him. But he doesn’t care.

“Yuuri!” he shouts, and for just a moment, a measly, little moment that Viktor, lovesick and hopelessly romantic as he is, will hang onto like his life depends on it, Yuuri looks shocked to see him. Happy, even. Color seems to flood his dulled eyes.

But Yuuri turns his back to him in the next second, head ducks and face obscured. And Viktor shouts.

“ _Yuuri!”_

He’s dragged away and out onto the streets by bodyguards, where they roughly send him flying into the pavement.

He blacks out.

 

Viktor lays on his bed, an empty shell of his former self, while Christophe, Mila, Georgi, and Yuri sit on various surfaces in the room.

“Things are not as they seem, you know,” Christophe tries to assure him.

“I agree,” Mila says. “That is not like him. He was different. Before, I mean, when you were with him. I think he’s never loved anyone or anything so fiercely.”

“Things are as they seem,” Viktor sniffles into his pillow. “He doesn’t love me anymore.”

“Pathetic,” Yuri mutters from somewhere.

“You never, _ever_ fall in love with a person who sells their body,” Georgi says from his perch to Viktor’s side. “It always ends badly. The jealousy never fails to drive you mad.”

“Georgi,” Mila sighs. “You are not helping.

“Viktor,” Christophe speaks up. “I know you may see us as a group of soulless, depraved goblins—”

“Speak for yourself!” Yuri’s voice says again.

Christophe ignores him. “ —whose only friends are hustlers and and prostitutes. But I can assure you with every fiber of my being, that there is no doubt that Yuuri loves you. I know that for a fact.”

“You can trust Christophe on that,” Mila says. “He’s basically _the_ love doctor.”

Viktor mumbles something into the pillow.

“Come again?”

With great effort, he lifts his head from the pillow. There’s a pitiful stain in the shape of eyes and two dots below that where his nostrils were. Mila shakes her head, mouthing the words, “ _Oh, sweetie…”_

“Please let me grieve in peace.”

“Are you kidding me?” Yuri suddenly appears at his bedside. It makes Viktor jump. “Are you really going to sit here crying like some—some—cowardly invertebrate?!”

“Yuri—” Christophe warns.

“C’mon! Life goes on! Of course Yuuri is going to slip through your fingers like he never fucking existed if you insist on moping the rest of your days away!”

Viktor is _not_ in the mood for this. He tells Yuri and the others this with a frown on his face.

“Ugh,” Yuri reluctantly complies. Christophe, Mila and Georgi give Viktor a consoling pat on the back before they leave, too.

Viktor, melodramatic (and rightfully so) as he is, was planning to hide here, alone and melancholy with nothing to keep him company but his thoughts.

And he nearly does. He watches his room being sent into an overcast as sunset hits his window. He’s alone with his thoughts. And he can’t help compare them to his thoughts prior to coming here. How uninspired he felt. How, despite writing being one of his greatest passions, he could not bring himself to do it. He felt perpetually tired. His world was gray.

And meeting Yuuri changed—e _verything_. Gave him a muse and a reason worth fighting for. The days are continuously hard, but knowing Yuuri loved—loves?—him so wholly helps glaze over his grayscale world with color, a little bit at a time.

He’s not doing himself justice by sitting here. He can’t give up now. He has yet to receive his answer.

Viktor gets up, grabs a change of clothes, and leaves his room. He steps outside into the warm, spring air. The Moulin Rouge is alive; he can hear it from here. He can see the spotlights flashing in the night sky like a beacon.

With deep breaths, and set shoulders, he starts his short trek to the theater.

Considering his last unsuccessful attempt in entering, Viktor takes care to be more stealthy this time. He watches for guards and slips in around back, entering through a backdoor that he knows will lead him to the backstage area.

From inside, he can hear the sounds on stage clearly. The music is loud and blaring, the foundations shake with the mass of back-up dancers pounding their feet against the floor. He can’t see the accompanying lightshow, but he imagines that it's blinding.

They’re a little over halfway through the production.

Viktor doesn’t dwell on the state of the show a second longer. He searches for Yuuri, hoping to catch a glimpse of him.

Instead, he catches a glimpse of Celestino, who looks beyond worried at the sight of him here. He doesn’t come forward to speak to him like Viktor thought he might; Celestino turns away, scurrying off in the opposite direction.

A moment later, Georgi falls from the doors in front of them, landing near Viktor’s feet with a loud _bang_ that startles him out of his skin. The poor man has fallen asleep again.

“Viktor?” calls a voice. The most beautiful voice in the word. A voice so sweet, Viktor could never find himself hating it. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to get confirmation,” Viktor states bluntly.

“Viktor, you shouldn’t be here. You have to leave.”

He swears he hears the voice of Christophe and Yuri shouting his name from the rafters. But he ignores it. This is far more important.

Viktor shakes his head. He won’t leave until he gets an answer. “Say you don’t love. Say you never loved me. That these last few months were fake, and then I’ll leave.”

“Viktor, just stop it. Please. You have to go.”

From this close to the stage, Viktor can hear Celestino’s booming voice shout, “Open the doors!” He ignores that, too.

“ _Please_ , tell me that one thing, Yuuri. Then I swear I’ll never bother you again.”

_“Open the doors!”_

“Viktor!” Yuuri shouts, his voice taking on a sudden sense of urgency. It’s confusing and out of the blue, but Viktor figures that Yuuri must be getting annoyed at all of his pestering. He should stop. He should leave Yuuri alone. He should leave this place and never turn back and return to Yakov, head hanging low in a walk of shame.

“Viktor, you have to go,” Yuuri is tugging at him, trying to get him to turn back and leave. He looks desperate. Viktor doesn’t understand why.

“You have to go _now_. _Please_. If you love me you will _go!”_

_**“Open the doors!”** _

The doors in front of them are pulled apart. Viktor is blinded by the light of the stage.

The music has been cut off, and Viktor stares at the awestruck faces of the audience below. The theater is full. There’s no place in sight to hide.

With hundreds of eyes on them, Yuuri stands with his hands unmistakably clutching Viktor’s shoulders.

The silent stretches long and stiff.

Celestino is the one to break it. “Aha! I cannot be fooled! Though he has dyed his hair platinum and shaved a bit of his hairline, I can still see that that is, in fact, the same penniless dorma player!”

The audience responds with _oooh’s_.

“Driven mad by jealousy!”

In unison, the audience _aaaah’s_.

Viktor realizes then, in the face of the former can-can dancers of the Moulin Rouge, that he doesn’t belong here. He’s never belonged here. He has no business intruding on this space, and like Yuuri has told him, he needs to go.

Letting go of him, Viktor walks out onto the stage to face the crowd and announce his grandiose declaration. “He’s yours now.” He wishes that weren’t true. “He means nothing to me now.” He _knows_ that isn’t true.

Viktor turns to Yuuri, and he hates the way his voice cracks when he speaks. “Thanks for curing me of my ridiculous obsession with love.”

He walks down the stairs, into the aisle, and towards the door. Silently, he promises himself that he won’t cry again until he’s reached his apartment this time.

“See?” he hears Celestino say, “He doesn’t truly love you. Look how he flees the kingdom!”

Viktor wonders if Celestino truly believes the words he’s speaking.

“VIKTOR!” a voice from the heavens echoes throughout the theater. It causes the audience to snap their heads up towards the ceiling. Viktor follows their line of sight until he spots what they’re looking at.

Christophe, hanging with rope, his hair practically brushing against the high ceiling.

**“THE GREATEST THING YOU’LL EVER LEARN IS TO LOVE AND BE LOVED IN RETURN!”**

Like a spell, those words cause a calm to fall over the audience, the cast, and over Viktor’s heart.

And in the silence, Yuuri steps forward. He opens his mouth.

He doesn’t hail himself as a grand singer, swears that his voice is nothing to swoon over, claims that Viktor has the far better singer voice between the two of them. That _Georgi_ is a better singer.

But Viktor would spend his last, dying breaths denying that statement. Maybe he’s biased, even now (he is), but he will forever stand by the fact that Yuuri has the kind of voice that could bring about world peace.

He’s singing their secret song. The same one The Duke insisted not be added to the play. The very one Viktor wrote that, should they ever be separated, they’ll know that they still love each other.

Viktor is a magnet, the way he runs into Yuuri’s waiting arms. They fit like puzzle pieces. Battered and broken and dragged countless times through the mud, but the memory of each other is enough to hold them together.

And then, with the memory strong in their limbs and the emotion running wild through their bodies, Viktor leads Yuuri is a clumsy waltz.

It was meant to be performed by Georgi, who’s no doubt the better dancer, but Viktor knows the steps, and he will dance his inexperienced heart out if it means Yuuri will know how much he adores him through his unsteady footwork.

 _“Cooome what may…”_ Viktor sings, forehead pressed against Yuuri.

 _“I will love you,”_ Yuuri responds, a smile in his watery eyes.

_“Until my—”_

_“—dy-ing—”_

There’s a scream. Viktor and Yuuri pull apart.

From the ceiling, Christophe and Yuri (when had he gotten there?) are yelling.

“Viktor, he’s got a gun! He’s trying to kill you!”

The audience collectively gasps at the dramatic turn of events.

But Viktor knows that isn’t a part of the script. This is real. His life is in danger.

The epiphany hits—that Yuuri must have tried to push him away to save his life. The thought makes his heart _swell_. But he can’t think about that right now, and he doesn’t get the chance to, because Yuuri pushes him aside as a bullet whizzes past their heads and lands in the wooden prop behind them.

“Yuuri _, run!_ He’s trying to kill you, too!”

The Duke hops onto the stage, gun in clutched in his hand, a mad look in his eyes.

All at once, the music picks up onto the final song and dance of the play. The stage is chaos, and Yuuri ushers Viktor across the stage and away from The Duke while the cast members block his path. All the while, he hears The Duke’s indignant shouts over the sound of singing.

“If I can’t have you, then _no one can!_ ”

“Yuuri,” Viktor wheezes. His heart pounds and burns and rages for two different reasons against his ribcage, and if he doesn’t get to say something, he feels he might explode. “Yuuri, I’m so happy right now. I love you dearly, Yuuri—”

“Now is not the time!”

Yuuri grabs a hat from one cast member and places it onto Viktor’s head to mask his blindingly platinum, easy-to-spot hair. Yuuri grabs the nearest scarf, smudges his make-up, and wraps the scarf over his shoulders to hide his glittering dress. Once he deems them disguised enough, he pushes Viktor to the forefront of the dancing mob, stands right next to him with his arm around Viktor’s shoulder, and he instructs Viktor to, _“sing!”_

“No matter what you say! The show! Is ending! Our way! Come on and stand your ground for freedom, beauty, truth and love!”

Viktor think he’s never felt so exhilarated, drunk on happiness, the thought that he’s two second away from possibly losing his life pushed to the back of his mind.

From the corner of his eye, he spots Yuri and Mila chasing The Duke. He slips away from Yuuri’s grasp to see what’s happening, self-preservation be damned.

He runs up to them just in time to see Yuri punching The Duke square in the face, promptly knocking him to the ground. “You bastard! That’s what you deserve!”

“You look like you haven’t showered in two months!” Mila chimes in happily. She pushes the gun with the heel of her shoe off the stage and onto the ground below.

“That’s my line!” Yuri whines. “I’m the original dorma. _I_ get to say that.”

The curtains are closed, and the loud cheering of the audience pulls their attention away.

“Standby for curtain call!” Celestino calls through the bustling noise.

Viktor watches as Yuuri runs up to him, and with open arms, he swings Yuuri in the air and peppers his face with kisses.

“Yuuri,” he says repeatedly, punctuating each and every utterance of his name with a kiss. “Yuuri, Yuuri, _Yuuri_.”

“Viktor,” Yuuri says in response. He’s smiling.

“Gross,” Yuri and Mila say simultaneously. They’re both grinning. (Yuri will swear that he wasn’t for years to come, but Viktor will never let him live it down.)

“You’re both okay!” Christophe sighs in relief. “You don’t know how happy that makes me.”

“We’re okay,” Viktor cannot stop grinning. The adrenaline is still rushing like aftershocks in his veins, and he feels _jumpy_. “We’re okay,” he says again, turning towards Yuuri, ready to see that gorgeous, gorgeous smile he’s come to love—

Yuuri is gasping. There is no smile on his face.

“Yuuri?” Viktor asks. The excitement is sapped right out of him. “Yuuri, what’s wrong?”

The paleness of Yuuri’s skin is suddenly so recognizable. He looks feeble and ready to collapse. And he does, falling weakly against Viktor’s chest. In all of his shock, Viktor can’t hold Yuuri up in time. The weight of him causes Viktor to tip over and fall to the ground.

“Oh, _god_ , what’s happening, Yuuri? Are you okay?”

Yuuri gasps like he can’t catch his breath. “I—I’m sorry, Viktor. I think I have consumption. I heard the doctor mention it, but I never asked, and now I—” He’s quivering, a mini earthquake in Viktor’s arms. Viktor can’t discern Yuuri’s shaking from his own.

He can’t handle this. Not now. Not again. They’d finally gotten their happy ending. He doesn’t want to give it up so soon. Not _again_.

“You’ll be okay, Yuuri. I know you will. You’ll be okay. You _have_ to be. You’re so strong, Yuuri,” he’s babbling nonsense words, doesn’t know what he’s saying, but he hopes it’s enough for Yuuri to clutch onto and hang on lest he slips away.

He sees Phichit sit by Yuuri’s side, filled with worry, holding his free hand. Phichit tells someone Viktor can’t see, “Go and fetch the doctor! Quickly!”

“Viktor,” Yuuri whispers. His voice is so, so meek. ~~“I want you to remember that I love you so, very much. I’m grateful to you, for showing me what love is the first time in my life. I may die here, but I need you to move on. I need you… to…”~~

.

.

~~“Viktor,” Yuuri whispers. Viktor can barely hear his voice now. It’s as soft and unassuming as a breeze, chilled like ice. “Viktor. I’m so cold. Please… please… hold me.”~~

.

.

~~The tears free falling down Viktor’s face intermingle with the fresh tears running down Yuuri’s cheeks. “Viktor, I—I love you. I’ll always love you…~~

.

.

~~“Viktor...”~~

.

~~_“Viktor.”_ ~~

.

~~“Vit _ya_ —”~~

.

 

.

 

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >:3c


	4. Epilogue

_St. Petersburg, five years later_

It is two in the morning. Viktor knows he should rest. It’s much too late to be writing anything cohesive right now. He’s delirious with lack of sleep, but the motivation to write suddenly hit him. He’s been at it for twelves hour without stopping, and he’s nothing if not ostensible, refusing to take a break until his first draft is complete. He knows he should, to allow his mind to be refreshed with the quiet, gentle lull of sleep, but the determination to finish is at war with that sleep deprived part of this mind.

The floorboards of this apartment, tiny and old as it is, creaks underneath its own weight. Viktor pushes his typewriter away, leans back against his seat, and runs his hands through his hair and down his face with a bone deep sigh.

He hears the creaking of the wooden floors grow louder and more incessant, like they’re drawing closer. Viktor doesn’t turn his head or peer over his fingers to check what’s making that sound. He doesn’t have to. It’s probably Makkachin or Vicchan padding their paws along the floor, craving Viktor’s attention.

But there’s no accompanying breathing that usually give the dogs away long before they appear. So it must be—

Blessedly warm, familiar arms wrap around his neck, and a cheek presses against his own, puffing them out childishly and blowing raspberries into the air.

“It’s getting late, Vitya,” the voice tells him. “Come to bed.”

Viktor leans his head back against the comforting figure behind him, and, like the dignified writer that he is, whines. “I’m nearly done, darling. Let me finish this final scene, then I’ll go to bed.”

Curious, Yuuri peeks over Viktor shoulder to read the last few lines Viktor had just been working on. He snorts. “Really? You’ll have me killed?”

“Everyone loves a good, dramatic ending,” Viktor insists like it’s a universal truth. In his world, it is.

“It was just a case of hysteria,” Yuuri reminds him.

“Yes, I know, but it’s true that Dr. Minako briefly suspected consumption, so—”

“Hadn’t we gone through enough tragedy? You don’t need to add _my death_ as another factor on top of literally and very nearly having both of our lives taken from us,” Yuuri huffs. He doesn’t quite understand Viktor and how his writer-wired mind works, even to this day. He doesn’t understand the dramatic endings that Viktor favors so much in his works, that tug so thoroughly at a reader’s heartstrings they’re left withering and irreparable.

Yuuri doesn’t get it entirely, but Viktor has cheekily caught him up at night, reading one of his many scripts by candlelight, weeping silently to himself, because the story had moved him that much.

Viktor’s words to Yuuri are like Yuuri’s dancing to Viktor. He just doesn’t understand. He gets it, immerses himself in the rushed feeling that turns his cheeks and the tip of his nose red. He gets it, in the way his heart beats so fast it’s rearing to jump right out of his chest and spill all over the dance floor. He gets it, when Yuuri’s eyes are brimmed wide with joy at seeing the way Viktor tries and fails to not trip over his own feet.

But he didn’t understand what Yuuri means by the storytelling in his dance, when he’s up on stage at the Bolshoi Theater, dancing gracefully in front of an audience who can’t pull their eyes away from him, gliding like he’s on ice. He didn’t understand how the constant _pain_ Yuuri had gone through, suffering mottled toes he thinks Viktor will find ugly (and he doesn’t believe Viktor when he tells him they’re not, until Viktor kisses his lips to each and every bruise he sees). He didn’t understand.

But right now, sitting in their cozy little apartment in the city of St. Petersburg, where Viktor slaves over his words, waiting for the right ones to comes, fearfully stretching his wrists to relieve them of their ache, he feels like he understands. Just a little.

Yuuri pulls him from his musing thoughts with a kiss to his neck, then to his cheeks, “You’re clearly not getting anywhere. Any more thinking at night like this and you’ll run yourself bald.”

Viktor frowns, “Yuuri, you’re so, unbelievably _cruel_.”

“It’s because I care,” Yuuri says. “Now c’mon.” He coaxes Viktor to stand, and Viktor does so reluctantly. He’s sure that if he sits there, glued with his ass to his seat and his eyes to his typewriter, the words will eventually come to him. 

“ _Monsieur_ ,” Yuuri drawls with an alluring roll of his tongue. “ _Tu ne veux pas coucher avec moi?"_ [7] He’s pouting. Stalks backwards into the bedroom, finger crooked just so to beckon Viktor to follow.

Viktor narrows his eyes. _Runs_ at Yuuri, and Yuuri squeals and screams and giggles uncontrollably when he’s scooped up into his arms and unceremoniously tossed onto their bed.

“You are the worst husband,” Viktor says, flopping down beside him.

Yuuri hums noncommittally, throwing his full weight on top of Viktor. His eyes are already drooping when he tells Viktor, “I love you, so very much.”

Viktor feels the tug of sleep, too. He kisses Yuuri’s forehead, tells him, “I love you, too, _zolotse,"_ [8] before he succumbs to it, and the smile never leaves his face as he’s dreaming.

He’ll never learn of a love greater than this.

And he never, ever wants to.

✦

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 7Tu ne veux pas coucher avec moi? = You don’t want to sleep with me? [return]  
> 8zolotse = my gold [return]

**Author's Note:**

> This is the part where I spend all 5000 characters thanking not only God, but also Jesus,
> 
> Seriously though, I'd like to thank everyone in the BBOI chat for supporting me while I write this, and all of my ~~heathens~~ friends in the LL Anon discord server. I love you guys sooo much.  <3
> 
> A big thank you to my beta reader [chroniccombustion](http://chroniccombustion.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Catch me on tumblr @[hinatella](http://hinatella.tumblr.com/) and on twitter [@hinatella](https://twitter.com/hinatella) if you'd like to yell at me about this fic or viktuuri or ~~getting on my ass about updating my WIP~~.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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